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33?  l)enrj>  Barnes 


THE  QUESTION  OF  OUR  SPEECH  AND  THE 
LESSON  OF  BALZAC. 

ENGLISH    HOURS.     Illustrated  by  Joseph  Pennell. 

The  Same.  Holiday  Edition.  With  illustrations  by 
Joseph  Pennell. 

ITALIAN  HOURS.   With  illustrations  by  Joseph  Pennell. 

A  PASSIONATE    PILGRIM,    AND   OTHER   TALES. 

TRANSATLANTIC    SKETCHES. 

RODERICK  HUDSON      A  Novel. 

THE  AMERICAN.     A  Novel. 

THE   EUROPEANS.     A  Novel. 

CONFIDENCE.     A  Novel. 

THE  PORTRAIT  OF  A  LADY.     A  Novel. 

THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  Including  also  The  Pen- 
lion  Beaurepas ;  The  Point  of  View. 

TALES  OF  THREE  CITIES.  Including  The  Impres- 
sions of  a  Cousin ;  Lady  Barberina ;  A  New  England 
Winter. 

A  LITTLE  TOUR  IN  FRANCE. 

The  Same.  Holiday  Edition.  With  about  70  Illustra- 
tions by  Joseph  Pennell.  Crown  8vo. 

PORTRAITS  OF  PLACES. 

DAISY  MILLER.    A  Comedy. 

THE  TRAGIC  MUSE.     2  vols. 

THE  SPOILS  OF  POYNTON.    A  Novel. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTOM  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  TRAGIC  MUSE 

BY 

HENRY  JAMES 

IN  TWO  VOLUMES 
VOL.  I. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(Cfte  Ribersibc  prcj#  Cambribfie 


COPYRIGHT,  1890,  BY  HENRY  JAMES 
COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  HENRY  JAMES 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CAMBRIDGE  •  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


T67 

V.I 

THE  TRAGIC  MUSE. 


THE  people  of  France  have  made  it  no  secret  t0   v 
that  those  of  England,  as  a  general  thing,  are,  to 
their  perception,  an  inexpressive  and  speechless  j  ^,  * 
race,  perpendicular  and  unsociable,  unaddicted  to 
enriching  any  bareness  of  contact  with^  verbal  or 
other  embroidery.    This  view  might  have  derived 
encouragement,  a  few  years  ago,  in  Paris,  from 
the  manner  in  which  four  persons  sat  together  in  —  ^ 
silence,  one  fine  day  about  noon,  in  the  garden,    ^*^* 
as  it  is  called,  of  the  Palais  de  1'Industrie  —  the     NVv/ 
central  court  of  the  great  glazed  bazaar  where, 
among  plants  and  parterres,  graveled  walks  and 
thin  fountains,  are  ranged  the  figures  and  groups, 
the  monuments  and  busts,  which  form,  in  the  an- 
nual exhibition  of  the  Salon,  the  department  of 
statuary.     The  spirit  of  observation  is  naturally 
high  at  the  Salon,  quickened  by  a  thousand  artful 
or  artless  appeals,  but  no  particular  tension  of  the 
visual  sense  would  have  been  required  to  embrace 
the  character  of  the  four  persons  in  question.    As 
a  solicitation  of  the  eye  on  definite  grounds,  they 


193529 


2  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

too  constituted  a  successful  plastic  fact ;  and  even 
the  most  superficial  observer  would  have  per- 
ceived them  to  be  striking  products  of  an  insular 
neighborhood,  representatives  of  that  tweed-and- 
waterproof  class  with  which,  on  the  recurrent  oc- 
casions when  the  English  turn  out  for  a  holiday 
—  Christmas  and  Easter,  Whitsuntide  and  the 
autumn  —  Paris  besprinkles  itself  at  a  night's 
notice.  They  had  about  them  the  indefinable 
professional  look  of  the  British  traveler  abroad  ; 
that  air  of  preparation  for  exposuTeTThaterial  and 
moral,  which  is  so  oddly  combined  with  the  se- 
rene revelation  of  security  and  of  persistence,  and 
which  excites,  according  to  individual  suscepti- 
bility, the  ire  or  the  admiration  of  foreign  com- 
munities. They  were  the  more  unmistakable  as 
they  illustrated  very  favorably  the  energetic  race 
to  which  they  had  the  honor  to  belong.  The 
fresh,  diffused  light  of  the  Salon  made  them  clear 
and  important ;  they  were  finished  productions, 
in  their  way,  and  ranged  there  motionless,  on 

their   green  bench,  thpyjvprp  plppst  a<;    mnrh  nn 

exhibition  as  jf  they  had  been  hung  on  the  line. 

Three  ladies  and  a  young  man,  they  were  qb- 
yiously  a  family  —  a  mother,  two  daughters  and 
a  son  —  a  circumstance  which  had  the  effect  at 
once  of  making  each  member  of  the  group  doubly 
typical  and  of  helping  to  account  for  their  fine 
taciturnity.  They  were  not,  with  each  other, 
on  terms  of  ceremony,  and  moreover  they  were 
probably  fatigued  with  their  course  among  the 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  3 

pictures,  the  rooms  on  the  upper  floor.  Their 
attitude,  on  the  part  of  visitors  who  had  superior 
features,  even  if  they  might  appear  to  some  pass- 
ers-by to  have  neglected  a  fine  opportunity  for 
completing  these  features  with  an  expression,  was, 
after  all,  a  kind  of  tribute  to  the  state  of  exhaus- 
tion, of  bewilderment,  to  which  the  genius  of 
France  is  still  capable  of  reducing  the  proud. 

"  En  v'la  des  abrutis  !  "  more  than  one  of  their 
fellow-gazers  might  have  been  heard  to  exclaim  ; 
and  certain  it  is  that  there  was  something  de- 
pressed and  discouraged  in  this  interesting  group, 
who  sat  looking  vaguely  before  them,  not  noticing 
the  life  of  the  place,  somewhat  as  if  each  had 
a  private  anxiety.  A  very  close  observer  would 
have  guessed  that  though  on  many  questions 
they  were  closely  united,  this  present  anxiety  was 
not  the  same  for  each.  If  they  looked  grave, 
moreover,  this  was  doubtless  partly  the  result  of 
their  all  being  dressed  in  mourning,  as  if  for  a 
recent  bereavement.  The  eldest  of  the  three 
ladies  had  indeed  a  face  of  a  fine  austere  mould, 
which  would  have  been  moved  to  gayety  only  by 
some  force  more  insidious  than  any  she  was  likely 
to  recognize  in  Paris.  Cold,  still  and  considerably 
worn,  it  was  neither  stupid  nor  hard,  but  it  was 
firm,  narrow  and  sharp.  This  competent  matron, 
acquainted  evidently  with  grief,  but  not  weakened 
by  it,  had  a  high  forehead,  to  which  the  quality 
of  the  skin  gave  a  singular  polish  —  it  glittered 
even  when  seen  at  a  distance ;  a  nose  which 


4  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

achieved  a  high,  free  curve ;  and  a  tendency  to 
throw  back  her  head  and  carry  it  well  above  her, 
as  if  to  disengage  it  from  the  possible  entangle- 
ments of  the  rest  of  her  person.  If  you  had  seen 
her  walk,  you  would  have  perceived  that  she  trod 
the  earth  in  a  manner  suggesting  that  in  a  world 
where  she  had  long  since  discovered  that  one 
couldn't  have  one's  own  way,  one  could  never 
tell  what  annoying  aggression  might  take  place, 
so  that  it  was  well,  from  hour  to  hour,  to  save 
what  one  could.  Lady  Agnes  saved  her  head, 
her  white  triangular  forehead,  over  which  her 
closely  crinkled  flaxen  hair,  reproduced  in  differ- 
ent shades  in  her  children,  made  a  sort  of  looped 
silken  canopy,  lOce"the'marquee  at  a  garden  party.} 
Her  daughters  were  tall,  like  herself  —  that  was 
visible  even  as  they  sat  there  —  and  one  of  them, 
the  younger  evidently,  was  very  pretty  :  a  straight, 
slender,  gray-eyed  English  girl,  with  a  "good" 
figure  and  a  fresh  complexion.  The  sister,  who 
was  not  pretty,  was  also  straight  and  slender  and 
gray-eyed.  But  the  gray,  in  this  case,  was  not 
so  pure,  nor  were  the  straightness  and  the  slen- 
derness  so  maidenly.  The  brother  of  these 
young  ladies  had  taken  off  his  hat,  as  if  he  felt 
the  air  of  the  summer  day  heavy  in  the  great  pa- 
vilion. He  was  a  lean,  strong,  clear-faced  youth, 
with  a  straight  nose  and  light-brown  hair,  which 
lay  continuously  and  profusely  back  from  his 
forehead,  so  that  to  smooth  it  from  the  brow  to 
the  neck  but  a  single  movement  of  the  hand  was 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  5 

required.  (1)  cannot  describe  him  better  than  by 
saying  that  he  was  the  sort  of  young  Englishman 
who  looks  particularly  well  abroad,  and  whose 
general  aspect  —  his  inches,  his  limbs,  his 
friendly  eyes,  the  modulation  of  his  voice,  the 
cleanness  of  his  flesh-tints  and  the  fashion  of  his 
garments  —  excites  on  the  part  of  those  who  en- 
counter him  in  far  countries  on  the  ground  of  a 
common  speech  a  delightful  sympathy  of  race. 
This  sympathy  is  sometimes  qualified  by  an  ap- 
prehension of  undue  literalness,  but  it  almost 
revels  as  soon  as  such  a  danger  is  dispelled.  We 
shall  see  quickly  enough  how  accurate  a  measure 
it  might  have  taken  of  Nicholas  Dormer.  There 
was  food  for  suspicion,  perhaps,  in  the  wandering 
blankness  that  sat  at  moments  in  his  eyes,  as  if 
he  had  no  attention  at  all,  not  the  least  in  the 
world,  at  his  command ;  but  it  is  no  more  than 
just  to  add,  without  delay,  that  this  discouraging 
symptom  was  known,  among  those  who  liked  him, 
by  the  indulgent  name  of  dreaminess.  For  his 
mother  and  sisters,  for  instance,  his  dreaminess 
was  notorious.  He  is  the  more  welcome  to  the 
benefit  of  such  an  interpretation  as  there  is  al- 
ways held  to  be  something  engaging  in  the  com-  G\ 
bination  of  the  muscular  and  the  musing,  the  J 
mildness  of  strength. 

After  some  time,  a  period  during  which  these 
good  people  might  have  appeared  to  have  come, 
individually,  to  the  Palais  de  1'Industrie  much 
less  to  see  the  works  of  art  than  to  think  over 


6  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

their  domestic  affairs,  the  young  man,  rousing 
himself  from  his  reverie,  addressed  one  of  the 
girls. 

"  I  say,  Biddy,  why  should  we  sit  moping  here 
all  day  ?  Come  and  take  a  turn  about  with  me." 

His  younger  sister,  while  he  got  up,  leaned  for- 
ward a  little,  looking  round  her,  but  she  gave,  for 
the  moment,  no  further  sign  of  complying  with 
his  invitation. 

"Where  shall  we  find  you,  then,  if  Peter 
comes  ?  "  inquired  the  other  Miss  Dormer,  mak- 
ing no  movement  at  all. 

"  I  dare  say  Peter  won't  come.  He  '11  leave  us 
here  to  cool  our  heels." 

"  Oh,  Nick,  dear !  "  Biddy  exclaimed  in  a  sweet 
little  voice  of  protest.  It  was  plainly  her  theory 
that  Peter  would  come,  and  even,  a  little,  her  ap- 
prehension that  she  might  miss  him  should  she 
quit  that  spot. 

"  We  shall  come  back  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Really,  I  must  look  at  these  things,"  Nick  de- 
clared, turning  his  face  to  a  marble  group  which 
stood  near  them,  on  the  right  —  a  man,  with  the 
skin  of  a  beast  round  his  loins,  tussling  with  a 
naked  woman  in  some  primitive  effort  of  court- 
ship or  capture. 

Lady  Agnes  followed  the  direction  of  her  son's 
eyes,  and  then  observed : 

"  Everything  seems  very  dreadful.  I  should 
think  Biddy  had  better  sit  still.  Has  n't  she  seen 
enough  horrors  up  above  ? " 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  f 

"  I  dare  say  that  if  Peter  comes,  Julia  will  be 
with  him,"  the  elder  girl  remarked  irrelevantly. 

"  Well,  then,  he  can  take  Julia  about.  That 
will  be  more  proper,"  said  Lady  Agnes. 

"  Mother,  dear,  she  does  n't  care  a  rap  about 
art.  It's  a  fearful  bore  looking  at  fine  things 
with  Julia,"  Nick  rejoined. 

"  Won't  you  go  with  him,  Grace  ? "  said  Biddy, 
appealing  to  her  sister. 

"  I  think  she  has  awfully  good  taste  !  "  Grace 
exclaimed,  not  answering  this  inquiry. 

"  Don't  say  nasty  things  about  her !  "  Lady 
Agnes  broke  out,  solemnly,  to  her  son,  after  rest- 
ing her  eyes  on  him  a  moment  with  an  air  of  re- 
luctant reprobation. 

"I  say  nothing  but  what  she'd  say  herself," 
the  young  man  replied.  "About  some  things 
she  has  very  good  taste,  but  about  this  kind  of 
thing  she  has  no  taste  at  all." 

"That's  better,  I  think,"  said  Lady  Agnes, 
turning  her  eyes  again  to  the  "kind  of  thing" 
that  her  son  appeared  to  designate. 

"  She 's  awfully  clever  —  awfully  ! "  Grace  went 
on,  with  decision. 

"  Awfully,  awfully  ! "  her  brother  repeated, 
standing  in  front  of  her  and  smiling  down  at 
her. 

"  You  are  nasty,  Nick.  You  know  you  are," 
said  the  young  lady,  but  more  in  sorrow  than  in 
anger. 

Biddy  got  up  at  this,  as  if  the  accusatory  tone 


8  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

prompted  her  to  place  herself  generously  at  his 
side.  "Mightn't  you  go  and  order  lunch,  in 
that  place,  you  know  ? "  she  asked  of  her  mo- 
ther. "  Then  we  would  come  back  when  it  was 
ready." 

"My  dear  child,  I  can't  order  lunch,"  Lady 
Agnes  replied,  with  a  cold  impatience  which 
seemed  to  intimate  that  she  had  problems  far 
more  important  than  those  of  victualing  to  con- 
tend with. 

"  I  mean  Peter,  if  he  comes.  I  am  sure  he 's 
up  in  everything  of  that  sort." 

"  Oh,  hang  Peter  !  "  Nick  exclaimed.  "  Leave 
him  out  of  account,  and  do  order  lunch,  mother ; 
but  not  cold  beef  and  pickles." 

"  I  must  say  —  about  him  —  you  're  not  nice," 
Biddy  ventured  to  remark  to  her  brother,  hesitat- 
ing, and  even  blushing,  a  little. 

"  You  make  up  for  it,  my  dear,"  the  young  man 
answered,  giving  her  chin — a  very  charming, 
rotund  little  chin  —  a  friendly  whisk  with  his 
forefinger. 

"  I  can't  imagine  what  you  've  got  against  him," 
her  ladyship  murmured,  gravely. 

"  Dear  mother,  it 's  disappointed  fondness," 
Nick  argued.  "  They  won't  answer  one's  notes  ; 
they  won't  let  one  know  where  they  are  nor 
what  to  expect.  '  Hell  has  no  fury  like  a  woman 
scorned  ; '  nor  like  a  man  either." 

"  Peter  has  such  a  tremendous  lot  to  do  —  it 's 
a  very  busy  time  at  the  Embassy ;  there  are  sure 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  g 

to  be  reasons,"  Biddy  explained,  with  her  pretty 
eyes. 

"  Reasons  enough,  no  doubt !  "  said  Lady  Ag- 
nes, who  accompanied  these  words  with  an  ambig- 
uous sigh,  however,  as  if  in  Paris  even  the  best 
reasons  would  naturally  be  bad  ones. 

"  Does  n't  Julia  write  to  you,  does  n't  she  an- 
swer you  the  very  day  ?  "  Grace  inquired,  looking 
at  Nick  as  if  she  were  the  courageous  one. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  returning  her  glance 
with  a  certain  severity.  "What  do  you  know 
about  my  correspondence  ?  No  doubt  I  ask  too 
much,"  he  went  on  ;  "I  'm  so  attached  to  them. 
Dear  old  Peter,  dear  old  Julia !  " 

"  She  's  younger  than  you,  my  dear  !  "  cried 
the  elder  girl,  stiil  resolute. 

"  Yes,  nineteen  days." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  know  her  birthday." 

"  She  knows  yours ;  she  always  gives  you  some- 
thing," Lady  Agnes  resumed,  to  her  son. 

"Her  taste  is  good  then,  is  n't  it,  Nick  ? "  Grace 
Dormer  continued. 

"  She  makes  charming  presents ;  but,  dear  mo- 
ther, it  is  n't  her  taste.  It 's  her  husband's." 

"  Her  husband's  ?  " 

"The  beautiful  objects  of  which  she  disposes 
so  freely  are  the  things  he  collected,  for  years, 
laboriously,  devotedly,  poor  man  !  " 

"  She  disposes  of  them  to  you,  but  not  to  oth- 
ers," said  Lady  Agnes.  "But  that's  all  right," 
she  added,  as  if  this  might  have  been  taken  for 


10  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

a  complaint  of  the  limitations  of  Julia's  bounty. 
"  She  has  to  select,  among  so  many,  and  that 's  a 
proof  of  taste,"  her  ladyship  went  on. 

"  You  can't  say  she  does  n't  choose  lovely  ones," 
Grace  remarked  to  her  brother,  in  a  tone  of  some 
triumph. 

"  My  dear,  they  are  all  lovely.  George  Dallow's 
judgment  was  so  sure,  he  was  incapable  of  mak- 
ing a  mistake,"  Nicholas  Dormer  returned. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  talk  of  him ;  he  was 
dreadful,"  said  Lady  Agnes. 

"  My  dear,  if  he  was  good  enough  for  Julia  to 
marry,  he  is  good  enough  for  one  to  talk  of." 

"  She  did  him  a  great  honour." 

"  I  dare  say ;  but  he  was  not  unworthy  of  it. 
No  such  intelligent  collection  of  beautiful  objects 
has  been  made  in  England  in  our  time." 

"You  think  too  much  of  beautiful  objects," 
returned  her  ladyship. 

"  I  thought  you  were  just  now  implying  that  I 
thought  too  little." 

"  It 's  very  nice  —  his  having  left  Julia  so  well 
off,"  Biddy  interposed,  soothingly,  as  if  she  fore- 
saw a  tangle. 

"  He  treated  her  en  grand  seigneur,  absolutely," 
Nick  went  on. 

"  He  used  to  look  greasy,  all  the  same,"  Grace 
Dormer  pursued,  with  a  kind  of  dull  irreconci- 
lability. "  His  name  ought  to  have  been  Tal- 
low." 

"  You  are  not  saying  what  Julia  would  like,  if 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  II 

that 's  what  you  are  trying  to  say,"  her  brother 
remarked. 

"  Don't  be  vulgar,  Grace,"  said  Lady  Agnes. 

"  I  know  Peter  Sherringham's  birthday !  " 
Biddy  broke  out  innocently,  as  a  pacific  diver- 
sion. She  had  passed  her  hand  into  her  brother's 
arm,  to  signify  her  readiness  to  go  with  him, 
while  she  scanned  the  remoter  portions  of  the 
garden  as  if  it  had  occurred  to  her  that  to  direct 
their  steps  in  some  such  sense  might  after  all  be 
the  shorter  way  to  get  at  Peter. 

"  He  's  too  much  older  than  you,  my  dear," 
Grace  rejoined,  discouragingly. 

"  That 's  why  I  've  noticed  it  —  he  's  thirty- 
four.  Do  you  call  that  too  old  ?  I  don't  care 
for  slobbering  infants  ! "  Biddy  cried. 

"  Don't  be  vulgar,"  Lady  Agnes  enjoined 
again. 

"  Come,  Bid,  we  '11  go  and  be  vulgar  together  ; 
for  that 's  what  we  are,  I  'm  afraid,"  her  brother 
said  to  her.  "We  '11  go  and  look  at  all  these  low 
works  of  art." 

"  Do  you  really  think  it 's  necessary  to  the 
child's  development  ?  "  Lady  Agnes  demanded, 
as  the  pair  turned  away.  Nicholas  Dormer  was 
struck  as  by  a  kind  of  challenge,  and  he  paused, 
lingering  a  moment,  with  his  little  sister  on  his 
arm.  "  What  we  've  been  through  this  morning 
in  this  place,  and  what  you  've  paraded  before 
our  eyes  —  the  murders,  the  tortures,  all  kinds 
of  disease  and  indecency  !  " 


12  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

Nick  looked  at  his  mother  as  if  this  sudden 
protest  surprised  him,  but  as  if  also  there  were 
lurking  explanations  of  it  which  he  quickly 
guessed.  Her  resentment  had  the  effect  not  so 
much  of  animating  her  cold  face  as  of  making  it 
colder,  less  expressive,  though  visibly  prouder. 
"Ah,  dear  mother,  don't  do  the  British  ma- 
tron !  "  he  exclaimed,  good-humoredly. 

"  British  matron  is  soon  said !  I  don't  know 
what  they  are  coming  to." 

"  How  odd  that  you  should  have  been  struck 
only  with  the  disagreeable  things,  when,  for  my- 
self, I  have  felt  it  to  be  most  interesting,  the 
most  suggestive  morning  I  have  passed  for  ever 
so  many  months  !  " 

"  Oh,  Nick,  Nick ! "  Lady  Agnes  murmured, 
with  a  strange  depth  of  feeling. 

"  I  like  them  better  in  London  —  they  are  much 
less  unpleasant,"  said  Grace  Dormer. 

"  They  are  things  you  can  look  at,"  her  lady- 
ship went  on.  "  We  certainly  make  the  better 
show." 

"The  subject  does  n't  matter;  it 's  the  treat- 
ment, the  treatment ! "  Biddy  announced,  in  a 
voice  like  the  tinkle  of  a  silver  bell. 

"  Poor  little  Bid  ! "  her  brother  cried,  breaking 
into  a  laugh. 

"  How  can  I  learn  to  model,  mamma  dear,  if  I 
don't  look  at  things  and  if  I  don't  study  them  ?  " 
the  girl  continued. 

This  inquiry  passed  unheeded,  and   Nicholas 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  13 

Dormer  said  to  his  mother,  more  seriously,  but 
with  a  certain  kind  explicitness,  as  if  he  could 
make  a  particular  allowance  :  "  This  place  is  an 
immense  stimulus  to  me  ;  it  refreshes  me,  excites 
me,  it 's  such  an  exhibition  of  artistic  life.  It 's 
full  of  ideas,  full  of  refinements  ;  it  gives  one 
such  an  impression  of  artistic  experience.  They 
try  everything,  they  feel  everything.  While  you 
were  looking  at  the  murders,  apparently,  I  ob- 
served an  immense  deal  of  curious  and  interest- 
ing work.  There  are  too  many  of  them,  poor 
devils ;  so  many  who  must  make  their  way,  who 
must  attract  attention.  Some  of  them  can  only 
taper  fort,  stand  on  their  heads,  turn  summersaults 
or  commit  deeds  of  violence,  to  make  people 
notice  them.  After  that,  no  doubt,  a  good  many 
will  be  quieter.  But  I  don't  know ;  to-day  I  'm 
in  an  appreciative  mood  —  I  feel  indulgent  even 
to  them :  they  give  me  an  impression  of  intelli- 
gence, of  eager  observation.  All  art  is  one  —  re- 
member that,  Biddy,  dear,"  the  young  man  con- 
tinued, looking  down  at  his  sister  with  a  smile. 
"  It 's  the  same  great,  many-headed  effort,  and  any 
ground  that  's  gained  by  an  individual,  any  spark 
that  's  struck  in  any  province,  is  of  use  and  of 
suggestion  to  all  the  others.  We  are  all  in  the 
same  boat." 

" '  We,'  do  you  say,  my  dear  ?  Are  you  really 
setting  up  for  an  artist  ? "  Lady  Agnes  asked. 

Nick  hesitated  a  moment  "I  was  speaking 
for  Biddy ! " 


14  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  But  you  are  one,  Nick  —  you  are !  "  the  girl 
cried. 

Lady  Agnes  looked  for  an  instant  as  if  she 
were  going  to  say  once  more,  "  Don't  be  vulgar !  " 
But  she  suppressed  these  words,  if  she  had  in- 
tended them,  and  uttered  others,  few  in  number 
and  not  completely  articulate,  to  the  effect  that 
she  hated  talking  about  art.  While  her  son 
spoke  she  had  watched  him  as  if  she  failed  to 
follow  him  ;  yet  something  in  the  tone  of  her  ex- 
clamation seemed  to  denote  that  she  had  under- 
stood him  only  too  well. 

"  We  are  all  in  the  same  boat,"  Biddy  repeated, 
smiling  at  her. 

"  Not  me,  if  you  please  !  "  Lady  Agnes  replied. 
"  It 's  horrid,  messy  work,  your  modeling." 

"  Ah,  but  look  at  the  results !  "  said  the  girl, 
eagerly,  glancing  about  at  the  monuments  in 
the  garden  as  if  in  regard  even  to  them  she 
were,  through  that  unity  of  art  that  her  brother 
had  just  proclaimed,  in  some  degree  an  effective 
cause. 

"  There  's  a  great  deal  being  done  here  —  a 
real  vitality,"  Nicholas  Dormer  went  on,  to  his 
mother,  in  the  same  reasonable,  informing  way. 
"  Some  of  these  fellows  go  very  far." 

"  They  do,  indeed  ! "  said  Lady  Agnes. 

"  I  'm  fond  of  young  schools,  like  this  move- 
ment in  sculpture,"  Nick  remarked,  with  his 
slightly  provoking  serenity. 

"  They  're  old  enough  to  know  better ! " 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  15 

"  May  n't  I  look,  mamma  ?  It  is  necessary  to 
my  development,"  Biddy  declared. 

"  You  may  do  as  you  like,"  said  Lady  Agnes, 
with  dignity. 

"  She  ought  to  see  good  work,  you  know,"  the 
young  man  went  on. 

"  I  leave  it  to  your  sense  of  responsibility." 
This  statement  was  somewhat  majestic,  and  for 
a  moment,  evidently,  it  tempted  Nick,  almost 
provoked  him,  or  at  any  rate  suggested  to  him 
an  occasion  to  say  something  that  he  had  on  his 
mind.  Apparently,  however,  he  judged  the  oc- 
casion on  the  whole  not  good  enough,  and  his 
sister  Grace  interposed  with  the  inquiry  — 

"  Please,  mamma,  are  we  never  going  to 
lunch?" 

"  Ah,  mother,  mother  !  "  the  young  man  mur- 
mured, in  a  troubled  way,  looking  down  at  Lady 
Agnes  with  a  deep  fold  in  his  forehead. 

For  her,  also,  as  she  returned  his  look,  it 
seemed  an  occasion  ;  but  with  this  difference^ 
that  she  had  no  hesitation  in  taking  advantage 
of  it.  She  was  encouraged  by  his  slight  embar- 
rassment; for  ordinarily  Nick  was  not  embar- 
rassed. "  You  used  to  have  so  much,"  she  went 
on  ;  "but  sometimes  I  don't  know  what  has  be- 
come of  it  —  it  seems  all,  all  gone  ! " 

"  Ah,  mother,  mother !  "  he  exclaimed  again,  as 
if  there  were  so  many  things  to  say  that  it  was 
impossible  to  choose.  But  this  time  he  stepped 
closer,  bent  over  her,  and,  in  spite  of  the  publi- 


l6  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

city  of  their  situation,  gave  her  a  quick,  expres- 
sive kiss.  The  foreign  observer  whom  (T)  took 
for  granted  in  beginning  to  sketch  this  scene 
would  have  had  to  admit  that  the  rigid  English 
family  had,  after  all,  a  capacity  for  emotion. 
Grace  Dormer,  indeed,  looked  round  her  to  see 
if  at  this  moment  they  were  noticed.  She  discov- 
ered with  satisfaction  that  they  had  escaped. 


It 

NICK  DORMER  walked  away  with  Biddy,  but  he 
had  not  gone  far  before  he  stopped  in  front  of  a 
clever  bust,  where  his  mother,  in  the  distance, 
saw  him  playing  in  the  air  with  his  hand,  carrying 
out  by  this  gesture,  which  presumably  was  ap- 
plausive, some  critical  remark  he  had  made  to  his 
sister.  Lady  Agnes  raised  her  glass  to  her  eyes 
by  the  long  handle  to  which  rather  a  clanking 
chain  was  attached,  perceiving  that  the  bust  rep- 
resented an  ugly  old  man  with  a  bald  head ;  at 
which  her  ladyship  indefinitely  sighed,  though  it 
was  not  apparent  in  what  way  such  an  object 
could  be  detrimental  to  her  daughter.  Nick 
passed  on,  and  quickly  paused  again  ;  this  time, 
his  mother  discerned,  it  was  before  the  marble 
image  of  a  grimacing  woman.  Presently  she  lost 
sight  of  him  ;  he  wandered  behind  things,  look- 
ing at  them  all  round. 

"  I  ought  to  get  plenty  of  ideas  for  my  model- 
ing, oughtn't  I,  Nick?"  his  sister  inquired  of 
him,  after  a  moment. 

"  Ah,  my  poor  child,  what  shall  I  say  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  I  have  any  capacity  for 
ideas  ?  "  the  girl  continued,  ruefully. 

"Lots  of  them,  no  doubt     But  the  capacity 


1 8  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

for  applying  them,  for  putting  them  into  prac- 
tice —  how  much  of  that  have  you  ?  " 
"  How  can  I  tell  till  I  try  ? " 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  trying,  Biddy,  dear  ? " 
"  Why,  you  know  —  you  've  seen  me." 
"  Do  you  call  that  trying  ?  "  her  brother  asked, 
smiling  at  her. 

"  Ah,  Nick  !  "  murmured  the  girl,  sensitively. 
Then,  with  more  spirit,  she  went  on  :  "  And 
please,  what  do  you  ? " 

"  Well,  this,  for  instance  ; "  and  her  companion 
pointed  to  another  bust  —  a  head  of  a  young 
man,  in  terra  cotta,  at  which  they  had  just  ar- 
rived ;  a  modern  young  man,  to  whom,  with  his 
thick  neck,  his  little  cap,  and  his  wide  ring  of 
dense  curls,  the  artist  had  given  the  air  of  a  Flo- 
rentine of  the  time  of  Lorenzo. 

Biddy  looked  at  the  image  a  moment.  "Ah, 
that 's  not  trying  ;  that 's  succeeding." 

"Not  altogether;  it's  only  trying  seriously." 
"  Well,  why  should  n't  I  be  serious  ?  " 
"  Mother  would  n't  like  it.  She  has  inherited 
the  queer  old  superstition  that  art  is  pardonable 
only  so  long  as  it 's  bad  —  so  long  as  it 's  done 
at  odd  hours,  for  a  little  distraction,  like  a  game 
of  tennis  or  of  whist.  The  only  thing  that  can 
justify  it,  the  effort  to  carry  it  as  far  as  one  can 
(which  you  can't  do  without  time  and  singleness 
of  purpose),  she  regards  as  just  the  dangerous, 
the  criminal  element.  It 's  the  oddest  hind-part- 
before  view,  the  drollest  immorality." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  19 

"  She  does  n't  want  one  to  be  professional," 
Biddy  remarked,  as  if  she  could  do  justice  to  every 
system. 

"  Better  leave  it  alone,  then  :  there  are  duffers 
enough." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  a  duffer,"  Biddy  said. 
"  But  I  thought  you  encouraged  me." 

"  So  I  did,  my  poor  child.  It  was  only  to  en- 
courage myself." 

"  With  your  own  work  —  your  painting  ?  " 

"  With  my  futile,  my  ill-starred  endeavors. 
Union  is  strength  ;  so  that  we  might  present  a 
wider  front,  a  larger  surface  of  resistance." 

Biddy  was  silent  a  moment,  while  they  con- 
tinued their  tour  of  observation.  She  noticed 
how  her  brother  passed  over  some  things  quickly, 
his  first  glance  sufficing  to  show  him  whether 
they  were  worth  another,  and  recognized  in  a 
moment  the  figures  that  had  something  in  them. 
His  tone  puzzled  her,  but  his  certainty  of  eye  im- 
pressed her,  and  she  felt  what  a  difference  there 
was  yet  between  them  —  how  much  longer,  in 
every  case,  she  would  have  taken  to  discriminate. 
She  was  aware  that  she  could  rarely  tell  whether 
a  picture  was  good  or  bad  until  she  had  looked 
at  it  for  ten  minutes  ;  and  modest  little  Biddy  was 
compelled  privately  to  add,  "  And  often  not  even 
then."  She  was  mystified,  as  I  say  (Nick  was 
often  mystifying — it  was  his  only  fault),  but  one 
thing  was  definite  :  her  brother  was  exceedingly 
clever.  It  was  the  consciousness  of  this  that 


20  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

made  her  remark  at  last,  "  I  don't  so  much  care 
whether  or  no  I  please  mamma,  if  I  please  you." 

"  Oh,  don't  lean  on  me.  I  'm  a  wretched  broken 
reed  —  I  'm  no  use  really  !  "  Nick  Dormer  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  're  a  duffer  ? "  Biddy  asked, 
alarmed. 

"  Frightful,  frightful !  " 

"  So  that  you  mean  to  give  up  your  work  —  to 
let  it  alone,  as  you  advise  me  ?  " 

"  It  has  never  been  my  work,  Biddy.  If  it  had, 
it  would  be  different.  I  should  stick  to  it." 

"  And  you  won't  stick  to  it  ? "  the  girl  ex- 
claimed, standing  before  him,  open-eyed. 

Her  brother  looked  into  her  eyes  a  moment, 
and  she  had  a  compunction  ;  she  feared  she  was 
indiscreet  and  was  worrying  him.  "  Your  ques- 
tions are  much  simpler  than  the  elements  out  of 
which  my  answer  should  come." 

"  A  great  talent  —  what  is  simpler  than  that  ? " 

"  One  thing,  dear  Biddy  :  no  talent  at  all !  " 

"  Well,  yours  is  so  real,  you  can't  help  it." 

"  We  shall  see,  we  shall  see,"  said  Nicholas 
Dormer.  "  Let  us  go  look  at  that  big  group." 

"  We  shall  see  if  it 's  real  ? "  Biddy  went  on,  as 
she  accompanied  him. 

"  No  ;  we  shall  see  if  I  can't  help  it.  What 
nonsense  Paris  makes  one  talk !  "  the  young  man 
added,  as  they  stopped  in  front  of  the  composi- 
tion. This  was  true,  perhaps,  but  not  in  a  sense 
which  he  found  himself  tempted  to  deplore.  The 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  21 

present  was  far  from  being  his  first  visit  to  the 
French  capital  :  he  had  often  quitted  England, 
and  usually  made  a  point  of  "  putting  in,"  as  he 
called  it,  a  few  days  there  on  the  outward  journey 
to  the  Continent  or  on  the  return  ;  but  on  this 
occasion  the  emotions,  for  the  most  part  agree- 
able, attendant  upon  a  change  of  air  and  of  scene 
had  been  more  punctual  and  more  acute  than  for 
a  long  time  before,  and  stronger  the  sense  of 
novelty,  refreshment,  amusement,  of  manifold 
suggestions  looking  to  that  quarter  of  thought  to 
which,  on  the  whole,  his  attention  was  apt  most 
frequently,  though  not  most  confessedly,  to  stray. 
He  was  fonder  of  Paris  than  most  of  his  country- 
men, though  not  so  fond,  perhaps,  as  some  other 
captivated  aliens  :  the  place  had  always  had  the 
power  of  quickening  sensibly  the  life  of  reflection 
and  of  observation  within  him.  It  was  a  good 
while  since  the  reflections  engendered  by  his  situ- 
ation there  had  been  so  favorable  to  the  city  by 
the  Seine ;  a  good  while,  at  all  events,  since  they 
had  ministered  so  to  excitement,  to  exhilaration, 
to  ambition,  even  to  a  restlessness  which  was  not 
prevented  from  being  agreeable  by  the  nervous 
quality  in  it.  Dormer  could  have  given  the  reason 
of  this  unwonted  glow;  but  his  preference  was 
very  much  to  keep  it  to  himself.  Certainly,  to 
persons  not  deeply  knowing,  or  at  any  rate  not 
deeply  curious,  in  relation  to  the  young  man's 
history,  the  explanation  might  have  seemed  to 
beg  the  question,  consisting  as  it  did  of  the  simpk 


22  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

formula  that  he  had  at  last  come  to  a  crisis.  Why 
a  crisis  —  what  was  it,  and  why  had  he  not  come 
to  it  before  ?  The  reader  shall  learn  these  things 
in  time,  if  he  care  enough  for  them. 

For  several  years  Nicholas  Dormer  had  not 
omitted  to  see  the  Salon,  which  the  general  voice, 
this  season,  pronounced  not  particularly  good. 
None  the  less,  it  was  the  exhibition  of  this  season 
that,  for  some  cause  connected  with  his  "  crisis," 
made  him  think  fast,  produced  that  effect  which 
he  had  spoken  of  to  his  mother  as  a  sense  of 
artistic  life.  The  precinct  of  the  marbles  and 
bronzes  appealed  to  him  especially  to-day ;  the 
glazed  garden,  not  florally  rich,  with  its  new  pro- 
ductions alternating  with  perfunctory  plants  and 
its  queer,  damp  smell,  partly  the  odor  of  plastic 
clay,  of  the  studios  of  sculptors,  spoke  to  him 
with  the  voice  of  old  associations,  of  other  visits, 
of  companionships  that  were  closed  —  an  insinu- 
ating eloquence  which  was  at  the  same  time, 
somehow,  identical  with  the  general  sharp  con- 
tagion of  Paris.  There  was  youth  in  the  air,  and 
a  multitudinous  newness,  forever  reviving,  and 
the  diffusion  of  a  hundred  talents,  ingenuities, 
experiments.  The  summer  clouds  made  shadows 
on  the  roof  of  the  great  building;  the  white 
images,  hard  in  their  crudity,  spotted  the  place 
with  provocations ;  the  rattle  of  plates  at  the 
restaurant  sounded  sociable  in  the  distance,  and 
our  young  man  congratulated  himself  more  than 
ever  that  he  had  not  missed  the  exhibition.  He 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  23 

felt  that  it  would  help  him  to  settle  something. 
At  the  moment  he  made  this  reflection  his  eye 
fell  upon  a  person  who  appeared — just  in  the 
first  glimpse  —  to  carry  out  the  idea  of  help.  He 
uttered  a  lively  ejaculation,  which,  howev.er,  in  its 
want  of  finish,  Biddy  failed  to  understand  ;  so 
pertinent,  so  relevant  and  congruous,  was  the 
other  party  to  this  encounter. 

The  girl's  attention  followed  her  brother's, 
resting  with  his  on  a  young  man  who  faced  them 
without  seeing  them,  engaged  as  he  was  in  im- 
parting to  two  persons  who  were  with  him  his 
ideas  about  one  of  the  works  exposed  to  view. 
What  Biddy  discerned  was  that  this  young  man 
was  fair  and  fat  and  of  the  middle  stature  ;  he 
had  a  round  face  and  a  short  beard,  and  on  his 
crown  a  mere  reminiscence  of  hair,  as  the  fact 
that  he  carried  his  hat  in  his  hand  permitted  it  to 
be  observed.  Bridget  Dormer,  who  was  quick, 
estimated  him  immediately  as  a  gentleman,  but  a 
gentleman  unlike  any  other  gentleman  she  had 
ever  seen.  She  would  have  taken  him  for  a  for- 
eigner, but  that  the  words  proceeding  from  his 
mouth  reached  her  ear  and  imposed  themselves 
as  a  rare  variety  of  English.  It  was  not  that  a 
foreigner  might  not  have  spoken  excellent  Eng- 
lish, nor  yet  that  the  English  of  this  young  man 
was  not  excellent.  It  had,  on  the  contrary,  a 
conspicuous  and  aggressive  perfection,  and  Biddy 
was  sure  that  no  mere  learner  would  have  ven- 
tured to  play  such  tricks  with  the  tongue.  He 


24  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

seemed  to  draw  rich  effects  and  wandering  airs 
from  it  —  to  modulate  and  manipulate  it  as  he 
would  have  done  a  musical  instrument.  Her 
view  of  the  gentleman's  companions  was  less 
operative,  save  that  she  made  the  rapid  reflection 
that  they  were  people  whom  in  any  country,  from 
China  to  Peru,  one  would  immediately  have  taken 
for  natives.  One  of  them  was  an  old  lady  with 
a  shawl ;  that  was  the  most  salient  way  in  which 
she  presented  herself.  The  shawl  was  an  an- 
cient, voluminous  fabric  of  embroidered  cashmere, 
such  as  many  ladies  wore  forty  years  ago  in  their 
walks  abroad,  and  such  as  no  lady  wears  to-day. 
It  had  fallen  half  off  the  back  of  the  wearer,  but  at 
the  moment  Biddy  permitted  herself  to  consider 
her  she  gave  it  a  violent  jerk  and  brought  it  up  to 
her  shoulders  again,  where  she  continued  to  ar- 
range and  settle  it,  with  a  good  deal  of  jauntiness 
and  elegance,  while  she  listened  to  the  talk  of  the 
gentleman.  Biddy  guessed  that  this  little  trans- 
action took  place  very  frequently,  and  she  was  not 
unaware  that  it  gave  the  old  lady  a  droll,  factitious, 
faded  appearance,  as  if  she  were  singularly  out  of 
step  with  the  age.  The  other  person  was  very 
much  younger  —  she  might  have  been  a  daugh- 
ter—and had  a  pale  face,  a  low  forehead  and 
thick,  dark  hair.  What  she  chiefly  had,  however, 
Biddy  rapidly  discovered,  was  a  pair  of  largely- 
gazing  eyes.  Our  young  friend  was  helped  to  the 
discovery  by  the  accident  of  their  resting  at  this 
moment,  for  a  little  while  —  it  struck  Biddy  as 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  2$ 

very  long  —  on  her  own.  Both  of  these  ladies 
were  clad  in  light,  thin,  scanty  gowns,  giving  an 
impression  of  flowered  figures  and  odd  transpar- 
encies, and  in  low  shoes,  which  showed  a  great 
deal  of  stocking  and  were  ornamented  with  large 
rosettes.  Biddy's  slightly  agitated  perception 
traveled  directly  to  their  shoes :  they  suggested 
to  her  vaguely  that  the  wearers  were  dancers  — 
connected  possibly  with  the  old-fashioned  exhibi- 
tion of  the  shawl-dance.  By  the  time  she  had 
taken  in  so  much  as  this  the  mellifluous  young 
man  had  perceived  and  addressed  himself  to  her 
brother.  He  came  forward  with  an  extended 
hand.  Nick  greeted  him  and  said  it  was  a  happy 
chance  —  he  was  uncommonly  glad  to  see  him. 

"I  never  come  across  you  —  I  don't  know 
why,"  Nick  remarked,  while  the  two,  smiling, 
looked  each  other  up  and  down,  like  men  reunited 
after  a  long  interval. 

"  Oh,  it  seems  to  me  there  's  reason  enough : 
our  paths  in  life  are  so  different."  Nick's  friend 
had  a  great  deal  of  manner,  as  was  evinced  by 
his  fashion  of  saluting  her  without  knowing  her. 

"Different,  yes,  but  not  so  different  as  that. 
Don't  we  both  live  in  London,  after  all,  and  in 
the  nineteenth  century  ? " 

"Ah,  my  dear  Dormer,  excuse  me:  I  don't j 
live  in  the  nineteenth  century.  Jamais  de  la 
vie ! " 

"  Nor  in  London,  either  ? " 

"  Yes  —  whei>  I  'm  not   in   Samarcand !     But 


26  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

surely  we  've  diverged  since  the  old  days.  1 
adore  what  you  burn  ;  you  burn  what  I  adore." 
While  the  stranger  spoke  he  looked  cheerfully, 
hospitably,  at  Biddy ;  not  because  it  was  she,  she 
easily  guessed,  but  because  it^as  in  his  nature  to 
desire  a  second  ayHitnr  —  a  kind  of  sympathetic 
jrallery.  Her  life,  somehow,  was  filled  with  shy 
people,  and  she  immediately  knew  that  she  had 
never  encountered  any  one  who  seemed  so  to 
know  his  part  and  recognize  his  cues. 

"  How  do  you  know  what  I  adore  ? "  Nicholas 
Dormer  inquired. 

"  I  know  well  enough  what  you  used  to." 

"  That 's  more  than  I  do  myself  ;  there  were  so 
many  things." 

"  Yes,  there  are  many  things  —  many,  many  : 
that's  what  makes  life  so  amusing." 

"  Do  you  find  it  amusing  ? " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  cest  a  se  tordre.  Don't  you 
think  so  ?  Ah,  it  was  high  time  I  should  meet 
you  —  I  see.  I  liajie-anad£a_^ou_need  me." 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  think  I  do  !  '^Klck  said,  in 
a  tone  which  struck  his  sister  and  made  her  won- 
der still  more  why,  if  the  gentleman  was  so  im- 
portant as  that,  he  did  n't  introduce  him. 

"  There  are  many  gods,  and  this  is  one  of  their 
temples,"  the  mysterious  personage  went  on. 
"  It 's  a  house  of  strange  idols  —  is  n't  it  ? —  and 
of  some  curious  and  unnatural  sacrifices." 

To  Biddy,  as  much  as  to  her  brother,  this  re- 
mark appeared  to  be  offered ;  but  the  girl's  eyes 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  2/ 

turned  back  to  the  ladies,  who,  for  the  moment, 
had  lost  their  companion.  She  felt  irresponsive 
and  feared  she  should  pass  with  this  familiar  cos- 
mopolite for  a  stiff,  scared  English  girl,  which 
was  not  the  type  she  aimed  at ;  but  there  seemed 
an  interdiction  even  of  ocular  commerce  so  long 
as  she  had  not  a  sign  from  Nick.  The  elder  of 
the  strange  women  had  turned  her  back  and  was 
looking  at  some  bronze  figure,  losing  her  shawl 
again  as  she  did  so  ;  but  the  other  stood  where 
their  escort  had  quitted  her,  giving  all  her  atten- 
tion to  his  sudden  sociability  with  others.  Her 
arms  hung  at  her  sides,  her  head  was  bent,  her 
face  lowered,  so  that  she  had  an  odd  appearance 
of  raising  her  eyes  from  under  her  brows ;  and  in 
this  attitude  she  was  striking,  though  her  air  was 
unconciliatory,  almost  dangerous.  Did  it  express 
resentment  at  having  been  abandoned  for  another 
girl  ?  Biddy,  who  began  to  be  frightened  — 
there  was  a  moment  when  the  forsaken  one  re- 
sembled a  tigress  about  to  spring  —  was  tempted 
to  cry  out  that  she  had  no  wish  whatever  to  ap- 
propriate the  gentleman.  Then  she  made  the 
discovery  that  the  young  lady  had  a  manner,  al- 
most as  much  as  her  cicerone,  and  the  rapid  in- 
duction that  it  perhaps  meant  no  more  than  his. 
She  only  looked  at  Biddy  from  beneath  her  eye- 
brows, which  were  wonderfully  arched,  but  there 
was  a  manner  in  the  way  she  did  it.  Biddy  hud 
a  momentary  sense  of  being  a  figure  in  a  ballet,  a 
dramatic  ballet  —  a  subordinate,  motionless  figure, 


28  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

to  be  dashed  at,  to  music,  or  capered  up  to.  It 
would  be  a  very  dramatic  ballet  indeed  if  this 
young  person  were  the  heroine.  She  had  mag- 
nificent hair,  the  girl  reflected ;  and  at  the  same 
moment  she  heard  Nick  say  to  his  interlocutor, 
"You're  not  in  London  —  one  can't  meet  you 
there  ? " 

"  I  drift,  I  float,"  was  the  answer ;  "  my  feel- 
ings direct  me  —  if  such  a  life  as  mine  may  be 
said  to  have  a  direction.  Where  there 's  any- 
thing to  feel  I  try  to  be  there  !  "  the  young  man 
continued,  with  his  confiding  laugh. 

"I  should  like  to  get  hold  of  you,"  Nick  re- 
marked. 

"  Well,  in  that  case  there  would  be  something 
to  feel.  Those  are  the  currents  —  any  sort  of 
personal  relation  —  that  govern  my  career." 

"I  don't  want  to  lose  you  this  time,"  Nick  con- 
tinued, in  a  manner  that  excited  Biddy's  surprise. 
A  moment  before,  when  his  friend  had  said  that 
he  tried  to  be  where  there  was  anything  to  feel, 
she  had  wondered  how  he  could  endure  him. 

"  Don't  lose  me,  don't  lose  me  ! "  exclaimed 
the  stranger,  with  a  countenance  and  a  tone  which 
affected  the  girl  as  the  highest  expression  of 
irresponsibility  that  she  had  ever  seen.  "  After 
all,  why  should  you  ?  Let  us  remain  together, 
unless  I  interfere" — and  he  looked,  smiling  and 
interrogative,  at  Biddy,  who  still  remained  blank, 
only  observing  again  that  Nick  forbore  to  make 
them  acquainted.  This  was  an  anomaly,  since  he 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  29 

prized  the  gentleman  so ;  but  there  could  be  no 
anomaly  of  Nick's  that  would  not  impose  itself 
upon  his  younger  sister. 

"Certainly,  I  keep  you,"  said  Nick,  "unless, 
on  my  side,  I  deprive  those  ladies"  — 

"  Charming  women,  but  it 's  not  an  indissolu- 
ble union.  We  meet,  we  communicate,  we  part ! 
They  are  going  —  I  am  seeing  them  to  the  door. 
I  shall  come  back."  With  this  Nick's  friend 
rejoined  his  companions,  who  moved  away  with 
him,  the  strange,  fine  eyes  of  the  girl  lingering 
on  Nick,  as  well  as  on  Biddy,  as  they  receded. 

"Who  is  he  —  who  are  they?"  Biddy  instantly 
asked. 

"  He  's  a  gentleman,"  Nick  replied,  unsatisfac- 
torily, and  even,  as  she  thought,  with  a  shade  of 
hesitation.  He  spoke  as  if  she  might  have  sup- 
posed he  was  not  one  ;  and  if  he  was  really  one 
why  did  n't  he  introduce  him  ?  But  Biddy  would 
not  for  the  world  have  put  this  question  to  her 
brother,  who  now  moved  to  the  nearest  bench 
and  dropped  upon  it,  as  if  to  wait  for  the  other's 
return.  No  sooner,  however,  had  his  sister  seated 
herself  than  he  said,  "  See  here,  my  dear,  do  you 
think  you  had  better  stay  ?  " 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  back  to  mother  ? " 
the  girl  asked,  with  a  lengthening  visage. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  ?  "  and  Nick  smiled 
down  at  her. 

"Is  your  conversation    to  be  about  — 
private  affairs  ? " 


30  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  No,  I  can't  say  that.  But  I  doubt  whether 
mother  would  think  it  the  sort  of  thing  that  's 
'necessary  to  your  development.'  " 

This  assertion  appeared  to  inspire  Biddy  with 
the  eagerness  with  which  again  she  broke  out : 
"  But  who  are  they  —  who  are  they  ? " 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  ladies.  I  never  saw 
them  before.  The  man  's  a  fellow  I  knew  very 
well  at  Oxford.  He  was  thought  immense  fun 
there.  We  have  diverged,  as  he  says,  and  I  had 
almost  lost  sight  of  him,  but  not  so  much  as  he 
thinks,  because  I  've  read  him,  and  read  him  with 
interest.  He  has  written  a  very  clever  book." 

"  What  kind  of  a  book  ?  " 

"  A  sort  of  a  novel." 

"What  sort  of  a  novel?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  —  with  a  lot  of  good 
writing."  Biddy  listened  to  this  with  so  much 
interest  that  she  thought  it  illogical  her  brother 
should  add,  "  I  dare  say  Peter  will  have  come,  if 
you  return  to  mother." 

"  I  don't  care  if  he  has.  Peter  's  nothing  to 
me.  But  I  '11  go  if  you  wish  it." 

Nick  looked  down  at  her  again,  and  then  said, 
"  It  does  n't  signify.  We  '11  all  go." 

"All?"  Biddy  echoed. 

"  He  won't  hurt  us.  On  the  contrary,  he  '11  do 
us  good." 

This  was  possible,  the  girl  reflected  in  silence, 
but  none  the  less  the  idea  struck  her  as  coura- 
geous —  the  idea  of  their  taking  the  odd  young 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  31 

man  back  to  breakfast  with  them  and  with  the 
others,  especially  if  Peter  should  be  there.  If 
Peter  was  nothing  to  her,  it  was  singular  she 
should  have  attached  such  importance  to  this 
contingency.  The  odd  young  man  reappeared, 
and  now  that  she  saw  him  without  his  queer 
female  appendages  he  seemed  personally  less 
unusual!  He  struck  her,  moreover,  as  generally 
a  good  deal  accounted  for  by  the  literary  char- 
acter, especially  if  it  were  responsible  for  a  lot 
of  good  writing.  As  he  took  his  place  on  the 
bench  Nick  said  to  him,  indicating  her,  "  My 
sister  Bridget,"  and  then  mentioned  his  name, 
"Mr.  Gabriel  Nash." 

"You  enjoy  Paris  —  you  are  happy  here?" 
Mr.  Nash  inquired,  leaning  over  his  friend  to 
speak  to  the  girl. 

Though  his  words  belonged  to  the  situation  it 
struck  her  that  his  tone  did  n't,  and  this  made 
her  answer  him  more  dryly  than  she  usually 
spoke.  "  Oh,  yes,  it  's  very  nice." 

"And  French  art  interests  you?  You  find 
things  here  that  please  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  like  some  of  them." 

Mr.  Nash  looked  at  her  with  kind  eyes.  "  I 
hoped  you  would  say  you  like  the  Academy 
better." 

"  She  would  if  she  did  n't  think  you  expected 
it,"  said  Nicholas  Dormer. 

"  Oh,  Nick  !  "  Biddy  protested. 

"Miss  Dormer  is  herself  an  English  picture," 


32  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

Gabriel  Nash  remarked,  smiling  like  a  man  whose 
urbanity  was  a  solvent. 

"  That 's  a  compliment,  if  you  don't  like  them !  " 
Biddy  exclaimed. 

"Ah,  some  of  them,  some  of  them;  there's 
a  certain  sort  of  thing  !  "  Mr.  Nash  continued. 
"We  must  feel  everything,  everything  that  we 
can.  We  are  here  for  that." 

"  You  do  like  English  art,  then  ? "  Nick  de- 
manded, with  a  slight  accent  of  surprise. 

Mr.  Nash  turned  his  smile  upon  him.  "  My 
dear  Dormer,  do  you  remember  the  old  complaint 
I  used  to  make  of  you  ?  You  had  formulas  that 
were  like  walking  in  one's  hat.  One  may  see 
something  in  a  case,  and  one  may  not." 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Nick,  "I  don't  know 
any  one  who  was  fonder  of  a  generalization  than 
you.  You  turned  them  off  as  the  man  at  the 
street-corner  distributes  handbills." 

"  They  were  my  wild  oats.  I  "ve  sown  them 
all." 

"We  shall  see  that!" 

"Oh,  they're  nothing  now  —  a  tame,  scanty, 
homely  growth.  My  only  generalizations  are  my 
actions." 

"  We  shall  see  them,  then." 

"  Ah,  excuse  me.  You  can't  see  them  with  the 
naked  eye.  Moreover,  mine  are  principally  nega- 
tive. People's  actions,  I  know,  are,  for  the  most 
part,  the  things  they  do,  but  mine  are  all  the 
things  I  don't  do.  There  are  so  many  of  those, 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  33 

so  many,  but  they  don't  produce  any  effect.  And 
then  all  the  rest  are  shades  —  extremely  fine 
shades." 

"  Shades  of  behavior  ? "  Nick  inquired,  with  an 
interest  which  surprised  his  sister  ;  Mr.  Nash's 
discourse  striking  her  mainly  as  the  twaddle  of 
the  under-world. 

"  Shades  of  impression,  of  appreciation,"  said 
the  young  man,  with  his  explanatory  smile.  "My 
only  behavior  is  my  feelings." 

"  Well,  don't  you  show  your  feelings  ?  You 
used  to ! " 

"  Was  n't  it  mainly  those  of  disgust  ?  "  Nash 
asked.  '•  Those  operate  no  longer,  i  have  closed 
that  window." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  like  everything  ? " 

"  Dear  me,  no  !  But  I  look  only  at  what  I  do 
like." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  have  lost  the  faculty 
of  displeasure  ?  " 

"  I  have  n't  the  least  idea.  I  never  try  it.  My 
dear  fellow,"  said  Gabriel  Nash,  "  we  have  only 
one  life  that  we  know  anything  about :  fancy  tak- 
ing it  up  with  disagreeable  impressions  !  When, 
then,  shall  we  go  in  for  the  agreeable  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  the  agreeable  ?  "  Nick 
Dormer  asked. 

"  Oh,  the  happy  moments  of  our  consciousness 
—  the  multiplication  of  those  moments.  We 
must  save  as  many  as  possible  from  the  dark 
gulf." 


34  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

Nick  had  excited  a  certain  astonishment  on  the 
part  of  his  sister,  but  it  was  now  Biddy's  turn  to 
make  him  open  his  eyes  a  little.  She  raised  her 
sweet  voice  and  inquired  of  Mr.  Nash  :  — 

"  Don't  you  think  there  are  any  wrongs  in  the 
world  —  any  abuses  and  sufferings  ?  " 

"  Oh,  so  many,  so  many  !  That 's  why  one 
must  choose." 

"  Choose  to  stop  them,  to  reform  them  —  is  n't 
that  the  choice  ? "  Biddy  asked.  "  That 's  Nick's," 
she  added,  blushing,  and  looking  at  this  person- 
age. 

"  Ah,  our  divergence  —  yes  !  "  sighed  Gabriel 
Nash.  "  There  are  all  kinds  of  machinery  for 
that  —  very  complicated  and  ingenious.  Your 
formulas,  my  dear  Dormer,  your  formulas  !  " 

"  Hang  'em,  I  have  n't  got  any  ! '.'  Nick  ex- 
claimed. 

"  To  me,  personally,  the  simplest  ways  are  those 
that  appeal  most,"  Mr.  Nash  went  on.  "  We  pay 
too  much  attention  to  the  ugly ;  we  notice  it,  we 
magnify  it.  The  great  thing  is  to  leave  it  alone 
and  encourage  the  beautiful." 

*  You  must  be  very  sure  you  get  hold  of  the 
beautiful,"  said  Nick. 

"Ah,  precisely,  and  that's  just  the  importance 
of  the  faculty  of  appreciation.  We  must  train 
our  special  sense.  It  is  capable  of  extraordinary 
extension.  Life 's  none  too  long  for  that." 

"  But  what 's  the  good  of  the  extraordinary  ex- 
tension if  there  is  no  affirmation  of  it,  if  it  all 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  35 

goes  to  the  negative,  as  you  say  ?    Where  are  the 
fine  consequences  ?  "  Dormer  asked. 

"  In  one's  own  spirit.  One  is  one's  self  a  fine 
consequence.  That 's  the  most  important  one  we 
have  to  do  with,  /am  a  fine  consequence,"  said 
Gabriel  Nash. 

Biddy  rose  from  the  bench  at  this,  and  stepped 
away  a  little,  as  if  to  look  at  a  piece  of  statuary. 
But  she  had  not  gone  far  before,  pausing  and 
turning,  she  bent  her  eyes  upon  Mr.  Nash  with 
a  heightened  color,  an  air  of  hesitation  and  the 
question,  after  a  moment,  "  Are  you  then  an 
aesthete  ? " 

""""Ah,  there  's  one  of  the  formulas  !  That 's 
walking  in  one's  hat !  I  've  no  profession,  my 
dear  young  lady.  I  've  no  Mat  civil.  These 
things  are  a  part  of  the  complicated,  ingenious 
machinery.  As  I  say,  I  keep  to  the  simplest  way. 
I  find  that  gives  one  enough  to  do.  Merely  to 
be  is  such  a  metier ;  to  live  is  such  an  art ;  to  feel 
is  such  a  career !  " 

Bridget  Dormer  turned  her  back  and  examined 
her  statue,  and  her  brother  said  to  his  old  friend, 
"And  to  write?" 

"  To  write  ?     Oh,  I  '11  never  do  it  again  ! " 

"  You  have  done  it  almost  well  enough  to  be 
inconsistent.  That  book  of  yours  is  anything 
but  negative  ;  it 's  complicated  and  ingenious." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  'm  extremely  ashamed  of 
it,"  said  Gabriel  Nash. 

"  Ah,  call  yourself  a  bloated  Buddhist  and  have 
done  with  it ! "  his  companion  exclaimed. 


36  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Have  done  with  it  ?  I  have  n't  the  least  de- 
sire for  that.  And  why  should  one  call  one's  self 
anything  ?  One  only  deprives  other  people  of 
their  dearest  occupation.  Let  me  add  that  you 
don't  begin  to  have  an  insight  into  the  art  of  life 
till  it  ceases  to  be  of  the  smallest  consequence 
to  you  what  you  may  be  called.  That 's  rudi- 
mentary." 

"  But  if  you  go  in  for  shades,  you  must  also  go 
in  for  names.  You  must  distinguish,"  Dormer 
objected.  "  The  observer  is  nothing  without  his 
categories,  his  types  and  varieties." 

"  Ah,  trust  him  to  distinguish  !  "  said  Gabriel 
Nash,  sweetly.  "  That 's  for  his  own  conven- 
ience ;  he  has,  privately,  a  terminology  to  meet  it. 
That 's  one's  style.  But  from  the  moment  it 's 
for  the  convenience  of  others,  the  signs  have  to 
be  grosser,  the  shades  begin  to  go.  That 's  a  de- 
plorable hour  !  Literature,  you  see,  is  for  the 
convenience  of  others.  It  requires  the  most  ab- 
ject concessions.  It  plays  such  mischief  with 
one's  style  that  really  I  have  had  to  give  it  up." 

"  And  politics  ? "  Nick  Dormer  asked. 

"  Well,  what  about  them  ? '  was  Mr.  Nash's 
reply,  in  a  peculiar  intonation,  as  he  watched  his 
friend's  sister,  who  was  still  examining  her  statue. 
Biddy  was  divided  between  irritation  and  curi- 
osity. She  had  interposed  space,  but  she  had 
not  gone  beyond  ear-shot.  Nick's  question  made 
her  curiosity  throb,  especially  in  its  second  form, 
as  a  rejoinder  to  their  companion's. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  37 

"That,  no  doubt  you'll  say,  is  still  far  more 
for  the  convenience  of  others  —  is  still  worse  for 
one's  style." 

Biddy  turned  round  in  time  to  hear  Mr.  Nash 
exclaim,  "  It  has  simply  nothing  in  life  to  do  with 
shades  !  I  can't  say  worse  for  it  than  that." 

Biddy  stepped  nearer  at  this,  and,  drawing  still 
further  on  her  courage,  "  Won't  mamma  be  wait- 
ing ?  Ought  n't  we  to  go  to  luncheon  ? "  she 
asked. 

Both  the  young  men  looked  up  at  her,  and  Mr. 
Nash  remarked,  — 

"  You  ought  to  protest !  You  ought  to  save 
him  ! " 

"  To  save  him  ?  "  said  Biddy. 

"  He  had  a  style  ;  upon  my  word,  he  had  !  But 
I've  seen  it  go.  I  've  read  his  speeches." 

"  You  were  capable  of  that  ? "  Dormer  de- 
manded. 

"  For  you,  yes)  But  it  was  like  listening  to  a 
nightingale  in  a  brass  band." 

"  I  think  they  were  beautiful,"  Biddy  declared. 

Her  brother  got  up  at  this  tribute,  and  Mr. 
Nash,  rising  too,  said,  with  his  bright,  colloquial 
air, — 

"  But,  Miss  Dormer,  he  had  eyes.  He  was 
made  to  see  —  to  see  all  over,  to  see  everything. 
There  are  so  few  like  that." 

"  I  think  he  still  sees,"  Biddy  rejoined,  won- 
dering a  little  why  Nick  did  n't  defend  himself. 

"  He  sees  his  side,  dear  young  lady.     Poor  man, 


38  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

fancy  your  having  a  '  side  '  —  you,  you  —  and 
spending  your  days  and  your  nights  looking  at 
it !  I  'd  as  soon  pass  my  life  looking  at  an  ad- 
vertisement on  a  boarding." 

"  You  don't  see  me  some  day  a  great  states- 
man ? "  said  Nick. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  it 's  exactly  what  I  've  a  ter- 
ror of." 

"  Mercy !  don't  you  admire  them  ? "  Biddy 
cried. 

"  It 's  a  trade  like  another,  and  a  method  of 
making  one's  way  which  society  certainly  con- 
dones. But  when  one  can  be  something  bet- 
ter ! " 

"  Dear  me,  what  is  better  ? "  Biddy  asked. 

The  young  man  hesitated,  and  Nick,  replying 
for  him,  said  — 

"  Gabriel  Nash  is  better !  You  must  come 
and  lunch  with  us.  I  must  keep  you  —  I  must !  " 
he  added. 

"We  shall  save  him  yet,"  Mr.  Nash  observed 
genially  to  Biddy  as  they  went,  and  the  girl  won- 
dered still  more  what  her  mother  would  make  of 
him. 


III. 

AFTER  her  companions  left  her,  Lady  Agnes 
rested  for  five  minutes  in  silence  with  her  elder 
daughter,  at  the  end  of  which  time  she  observed, 
"  I  suppose  one  must  have  food,  at  any  rate," 
and,  getting  up,  quitted  the  place  where  they  had 
been  sitting.  "  And  where  are  we  to  go  ?  I 
hate  eating  out-of-doors,"  she  went  on. 

"  Dear  me,  when  one  comes  to  Paris  ? "  Grace 
rejoined,  in  a  tone  which  appeared  to  imply  that 
in  so  rash  an  adventure  one  must  be  prepared  for 
compromises  and  concessions.  The  two  ladies 
wandered  to  where  they  saw  a  large  sign  of 
"  Buffet "  suspended  in  the  air,  entering  a  pre- 
cinct reserved  for  little  white-clothed  tables, 
straw-covered  chairs,  and  long-aproned  waiters. 
One  of  these  functionaries  approached  them  with 
eagerness,  and  with  a  "  Mesdames  sont  seules  ? " 
receiving  in  return,  from  her  ladyship,  the 
slightly  snappish  announcement,  "  Non  ;  nous 
sommes  beaucoup  !  "  He  introduced  them  to  a 
table  larger  than  most  of  the  others,  and  under 
his  protection  they  took  their  places  at  it  and  be- 
gan, rather  languidly  and  vaguely,  to  consider  the 
question  of  the  repast.  The  waiter  had  placed  a 
carte  in  Lady  Agnes's  hands,  and  she  studied  it, 


40  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

through  her  eyeglass,  with  a  failure  of  interest, 
while  he  enumerated,  with  professional  fluency, 
the  resources  of  the  establishment,  and  Grace 
looked  at  the  people  at  the  other  tables.  She 
was  hungry,  and  had  already  broken  a  morsel 
from  a  long  glazed  roll. 

"Not  cold  beef  and  pickles,  you  know,"  she 
observed  to  her  mother.  Lady  Agnes  gave  no 
heed  to  this  profane  remark,  but  she  dropped  her 
eyeglass  and  laid  down  the  greasy  document. 
"  What  does  it  signify  ?  I  dare  say  it 's  all 
nasty,"  Grace  continued  ;  and  she  added,  incon- 
sequently,  "  If  Peter  comes,  he 's  sure  to  be  par- 
ticular." 

"  Let  him  be  particular  to  come,  first !  "  her 
ladyship  exclaimed,  turning  a  cold  eye  upon  the 
waiter. 

"  Poulet  chasseur,  filets  mignons,  sauce  b£ar- 
naise,"  the  man  suggested. 

"  You  will  give  us  what  I  tell  you,"  said  Lady 
Agnes,  and  she  mentioned,  with  distinctness  and 
authority,  the  dishes  of  which  she  desired  that 
the  meal  should  be  composed.  He  interposed 
three  or  four  more  suggestions,  but  as  they  pro- 
duced absolutely  no  impression  on  her  he  became 
silent  and  submissive,  doing  justice,  apparently, 
to  her  ideas.  For  Lady  Agnes  had  ideas  ;  and 
though  it  had  suited  her  humor,  ten  minutes  be- 
fore, to  profess  herself  helpless  in  such  a  case, 
the  manner  in  which  she  imposed  them  upon 
the  waiter  as  original,  practical  and  economical 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  41 

showed  the  high,  executive  woman,  the  mother  of 
children,  the  daughter  of  earls,  the  consort  of  an 
official,  the  dispenser  of  hospitality,  looking  back 
upon  a  lifetime  of  luncheons.  She  carried  many 
cares,  and  the  feeding  of  multitudes  (she  was 
honorably  conscious  of  having  fed  them  decently, 
as  she  had  always  done  everything)  had  ever 
been  one  of  them.  "Everything  is  absurdly 
dear,"  she  remarked  to  her  daughter,  as  the 
waiter  went  away.  To  this  remark  Grace  made 
no  answer.  She  had  been  used,  for  a  long  time 
back,  to  hearing  that  everything  was  very  dear ; 
it  was  what  one  always  expected.  So  she  found 
the  case  herself,  but  she  was  silent  and  inventive 
about  it. 

Nothing  further  passed,  in  the  way  of  conver- 
sation with  her  mother,  while  they  waited  for  the 
latter's  orders  to  be  executed,  till  Lady  Agnes 
reflected,  audibly  :  "  He  makes  me  unhappy,  the 
way  he  talks  about  Julia." 

"  Sometimes  I  think  he  does  it  to  torment  one. 
Ojxe  can't  mention  her  !  "  Grace  responded. 

"  It 's  better  not  to  mention  her,  but  to  leave  it 
alone." 

"  Yet  he  never  mentions  her  of  himself." 

"  In  some  cases  that  is  supposed  to  show  that 
people  like  people  —  though  of  course  something 
more  than  that  is  required,"  Lady  Agnes  con- 
tinued to  meditate.  "  Sometimes  I  think  he  's 
thinking  of  her ;  then  at  others  I  can't  fancy 
what  he 's  thinking  of." 


42  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  It  would  be  awfully  suitable,"  said  Grace, 
biting  her  roll. 

Her  mother  was  silent  a  moment,  as  if  she 
were  looking  for  some  higher  ground  to  put  it 
upon.  Then  she  appeared  to  find  this  loftier 
level  in  the  observation.  "Of  course  he  must 
like  her  ;  he  has  known  her  always." 

"  Nothing  can  be  plainer  than  that  she  likes 
him,"  Grace  declared. 

"Poor  Julia!"  Lady  Agnes  exclaimed:  and 
her  tone  suggested  that  she  knew  more  about 
that  than  she  was  ready  to  state. 

"  It  is  n't  as  if  she  was  n't  clever  and  well 
read,"  her  daughter  went  on.  "  If  there  were 
nothing  else,  there  would  be  a  reason  in  her  be- 
ing so  interested  in  politics,  in  everything  that 
he  is." 

"  Ah,  what  he  is  —  that 's  what  I  sometimes 
wonder ! " 

Grace  Dormer  looked  at  her  mother  a  moment. 
"  Why,  mother,  is  n  't  he  going  to  be  like  papa  ? " 
She  waited  for  an  answer  that  did  n't  come  ;  after 
which  she  pursued,  "  I  thought  you  thought  him 
so  like  him  already." 

"  Well,  I  don't,"  said  Lady  Agnes  quietly. 

"  Who  is,  then  ?     Certainly  Percy  is  n't." 

Lady  Agnes  was  silent  a  moment.  "  There  is 
no  one  like  your  father." 

"  Dear  papa !  "  Grace  exclaimed.  Then,  with  a 
rapid  transition,  "  It  would  be  so  jolly  for  all  of 
us  ;  she  would  be  so  nice  to  us." 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  43 

"  She  is  that  already,  in  her  way,"  said  Lady 
Agnes,  conscientiously,  having  followed  the  re- 
turn, quick  as  it  was.  "Much  good  does  it  do 
her  !  "  And  she  reproduced  the  note  of  her  ejac- 
ulation of  a  moment  before. 

"  It  does  her  some,  if  one  looks  out  for  her.  I 
do,  and  I  think  she  knows  it,"  Grace  declared. 
"  One  can,  at  any  rate,  keep  other  women  off." 

"  Don't  meddle  !  you  're  very  clumsy,"  was  her 
mother's  not  particularly  sympathetic  rejoinder. 
"  There  are  other  women  who  are  beautiful,  and 
there  are  others  who  are  clever  and  rich." 

"  Yes,  but  not  all  in  one  ;  that 's  what 's  so  nice 
in  Julia.  Her  fortune  would  be  thrown  in  ;  he 
would  n't  appear  to  have  married  her  for  it." 

"  If  he  does,  he  won't,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  a 
trifle  obscurely. 

"  Yes,  that 's  what 's  so  charming.  And  he 
could  do  anything  then,  could  n't  he  ? " 

"Well,  your  father  had  no  fortune,  to  speak 
of." 

"Yes,  but  did  n't  uncle  Percy  help  him  ?  " 

"  His  wife  helped  him,"  said  Lady  Agnes. 

"  Dear  mamma ! "  the  girl  exclaimed.  "  There 's 
one  thing,"  she  added :  "  that  Mr.  Carteret  will 
always  help  Nick." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  always  '  ? " 

"Why,  whether  he  marries  Julia  or  not." 

"Things  are  not  so  easy,"  responded  Lady 
Agnes.  "  It  will  all  depend  on  Nick's  behavior. 
He  can  stop  it  to-morrow." 


44  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE, 

Grace  Dormer  stared  ;  she  evidently  thought 
Mr.  Carteret's  beneficence  a  part  of  the  scheme 
of  nature.  "  How  could  he  stop  it  ?  " 

"  By  not  being  serious.  It  is  n't  so  hard  to 
prevent  people  giving  you  money." 

"  Serious  ? "  Grace  repeated.  "  Does  he  want 
him  to  be  a  prig,  like  Lord  Egbert  ?  " 

"Yes,  he  does.  And  what  he'll  do  for  him 
he  '11  do  for  him  only  if  he  marries  Julia." 

"  Has  he  told  you  ? "  Grace  inquired.  And 
then,  before  her  mother  could  answer,  she  ex- 
claimed, "  I  'm  delighted  at  that !  " 

"  He  has  n't  told  me,  but  that 's  the  way  things 
happen."  Lady  Agnes  was  less  optimistic  than 
her  daughter,  and  such  optimism  as  she  cultivated 
was  a  thin  tissue  with  the  sense  of  things  as 
they  are  showing  through  it.  "  If  Nick  becomes 
rich,  Charles  Carteret  will  make  him  more  so. 
If  he  does  n't,  he  won't  give  him  a  shilling." 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  "  Grace  protested. 

"  It 's  all  very  well  to  say  that  in  public  life 
money  is  n't  necessary,  as  it  used  to  be,"  her 
ladyship  went  on,  broodingly.  "  Those  who  say 
so  don't  know  anything  about  it.  It 's  always 
necessary." 

Her  daughter  was  visibly  affected  by  the 
gloom  of  her  manner,  and  felt  impelled  to  evoke, 
as  a  corrective,  a  more  cheerful  idea.  "  I  dare 
say  ;  but  there 's  the  fact  —  is  n't  there  ?  —  that 
poor  papa  had  so  little." 

"Yes,  and  there  's  the  fact  that  it  killed  him ! " 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  45 

These  words  came  out  with  a  strange,  quick 
little  flare  of  passion.  They  startled  Grace  Dor- 
mer, who  jumped  in  her  place,  and  cried,  "Oh, 
mother ! "  The  next  instant,  however,  she 
added,  in  a  different  voice,  "  Oh,  Peter ! "  for, 
with  an  air  of  eagerness,  a  gentleman  was  walk- 
ing up  to  them. 

"  How  d'  ye  do,  cousin  Agnes  ?  How  d'  ye  do, 
little  Grace  ? "  Peter  Sherringham  said,  laugh- 
ing and  shaking  hands  with  them  ;  and  three 
minutes  later  he  was  settled  in  his  chair  at  their 
table,  on  which  the  first  elements  of  the  repast 
had  been  placed.  Explanations,  on  one  side  and 
the  other,  were  demanded  and  produced  ;  from 
which  it  appeared  that  the  two  parties  had  been 
in  some  degree  at  cross-purposes.  The  day  be- 
fore Lady  Agnes  and  her  companions  traveled  to 
Paris,  Sherringham  had  gone  to  London  for 
forty-eight  hours,  on  private  business  of  the  am- 
bassador's, arriving,  on  his  return  by  the  night- 
train,  only  early  that  morning.  There  had  ac- 
cordingly been  a  delay  in  his  receiving  Nick  Dor- 
mer's two  notes.  If  Nick  had  come  to  the 
Embassy  in  person  (he  might  have  done  him  the 
honor  to  call),  he  would  have  learned  that  the 
second  secretary  was  absent.  Lady  Agnes  was 
not  altogether  successful  in  assigning  a  motive 
to  her  son's  neglect  of  this  courteous  form  ;  she 
said,  "  I  expected  him,  I  wanted  him,  to  go ;  and 
indeed,  not  hearing  from  you,  he  would  have 
gone  immediately  —  an  hour  or  two  hence,  on 


46  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

leaving  this  place.  But  we  are  here  so  quietly, 
not  to  go  out,  not  to  seem  to  appeal  to  the  am- 
bassador. He  said,  '  Oh,  mother,  we  '11  keep  out 
of  it ;  a  friendly  note  will  do.'  I  don't  know, 
definitely,  what  he  wanted  to  keep  out  of,  except 
it 's  anything  like  gayety.  The  Embassy  is  n't 
gay,  I  know.  But  I  'm  sure  his  note  was  friendly, 
was  n't  it  ?  I  dare  say  you  '11  see  for  yourself  ; 
he's  different  directly  he  gets  abroad;  he  does 
n't  seem  to  care."  Lady  Agnes  paused  a  mo- 
ment, not  carrying  out  this  particular  elucidation ; 
then  she  resumed  :  "  He  said  you  would  have 
seen  Julia,  and  that  you  would  understand  every- 
thing from  her.  And  when  I  asked  how  she 
would  know,  he  said,  '  Oh,  she  knows  every- 
thing ! ' " 

"  He  never  said  a  word  to  me  about  Julia," 
Peter  Sherringham  rejoined.  Lady  Agnes  and 
her  daughter  exchanged  a  glance  at  this  ;  the 
latter  had  already  asked  three  times  where  Julia 
was,  and  her  ladyship  dropped  that  they  had  been 
hoping  she  would  be  able  to  come  with  Peter. 
The  young  man  set  forth  that  she  was  at  that 
moment  at  an  hotel  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  but 
had  only  been  there  since  that  morning  ;  he  had 
seen  her  before  coming  to  the  Champs  Elysees. 
She  had  come  up  to  Paris  by  an  early  train  — 
she  had  been  staying  at  Versailles,  of  all  places 
in  the  world.  She  had  been  a  week  in  Paris,  on 
her  return  from  Cannes  (her  stay  there  had  been 
of  nearly  a  month,  —  fancy  !),  and  then  had  gone 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  4? 

out  to  Versailles  to  see  Mrs.  Billinghurst.  Per- 
haps they  would  remember  her,  poor  Dallow's 
sister.  She  was  staying  there  to  teach  her 
daughters  French  (she  had  a  dozen  or  two  !),  and 
Julia  had  spent  three  days  with  her.  She  was  to 
return  to  England  about  the  25th.  It  would 
make  seven  weeks  that  she  would  have  been 
away  from  town  —  a  rare  thing  for  her  ;  she  usu- 
ally stuck  to  it  so  in  summer. 

"  Three  days  with  Mrs.  Billinghurst  —  how 
very  good-natured  of  her !  "  Lady  Agnes  com- 
mented. 

"  Oh,  they  're  very  nice  to  her,"  Sherringham 
said. 

"  Well,  I  hope  so  !  "  Grace  Dormer  qualified, 
"  Why  did  n't  you  make  her  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  proposed  it,  but  she  would  n't."  Another 
eye-beam,  at  this,  passed  between  the  two  ladies, 
and  Peter  went  on  :  "  She  said  you  must  come 
and  see  her,  at  the  H6tel  de  Hollande." 

"Of  course  we'll  do  that,"  Lady  Agnes  de- 
clared. "  Nick  went  to  ask  about  her  at  the 
Westminster." 

"  She  gave  that  up  ;  they  would  n't  give  her 
the  rooms  she  wanted,  her  usual  set." 

"  She 's  delightfully  particular  !  "  Grace  mur- 
mured. Then  she  added,  "  She  does  like  pic- 
tures, does  n't  she  ?  " 

Peter  Sherringham  stared.  "Oh,  I  dare  say. 
But  that 's  not  what  she  has  in  her  head  this 
morning.  She  has  some  news  from  London; 
she  's  immensely  excited." 


48  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  What  has  she  in  her  head  ?  "  Lady  Agnes 
asked. 

"  What 's  her  news  from  London  ?  "  Grace  de- 
manded. 

"  She  wants  Nick  to  stand. " 

"  Nick  to  stand  ?  "  both  the  ladies  cried. 

"  She  undertakes  to  bring  him  in  for  Harsh. 
Mr.  Pinks  is  dead  —  the  fellow,  you  know,  that 
got  the  seat  at  the  general  election.  He  dropped 
down  in  London  —  disease  of  the  heart,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort.  Julia  has  her  telegram,  but  I 
see  it  was  in  last  night's  papers." 

"  Imagine,  Nick  never  mentioned  it !  "  said 
Lady  Agnes. 

"  Don't  you  know,  mother  ?  —  abroad  he  only 
reads  foreign  papers." 

"  Oh,  I  know.  I  've  no  patience  with  him," 
her  ladyship  continued.  "  Dear  Julia !  " 

"  It 's  a  nasty  little  place,  and  Pinks  had  a 
tight  sqeeze  —  107,  or  something  of  that  sort ; 
but  if  it  returned  a  Liberal  a  year  ago,  very  likely 
it  will  do  so  again.  Julia,  at  any  rate,  se  fait 
forte,  as  they  say  here,  to  put  him  in." 

"  I  'm  sure  if  she  can  she  will,"  Grace  re- 
flected. 

"  Dear,  dear  Julia !  And  Nick  can  do  some- 
thing for  himself,"  said  the  mother  of  this  candi- 
date. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  he  can  do  anything,"  Peter 
Sherringham  returned,  good-naturedly.  Then, 
"  Do  you  mean  in  expenses  ?  "  he  inquired. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  49 

"  Ah,  I  'm  afraid  he  can't  do  much  in  expenses, 
poor  dear  boy  !  And  it 's  dreadful,  how  little  we 
can  look  to  Percy." 

"Well,  I  dare  say  you  may  look  to  Julia.  I 
think  that  's  her  idea." 

"Delightful  Julia!"  Lady  Agnes  ejaculated. 
"  If  poor  Sir  Nicholas  could  have  known  !  Of 
course  he  must  go  straight  home,"  she  added. 

"  He  won't  like  that,"  said  Grace. 

"Then  he '11  have  to  go  without  liking  it." 

"  It  will  rather  spoil  your  little  excursion,  if 
you  Ve  only  just  come,"  Peter  suggested;  "and 
the  great  Biddy's,  if  she  's  enjoying  Paris." 

"  We  may  stay,  perhaps  —  with  Julia  to  protect 
us,"  said  Lady  Agnes. 

"  Ah,  she  won't  stay ;  she  '11  go  over  for  her 
man." 

"  Her  man  ?  " 

"  The  fellow  that  stands,  whoever  he  is ;  es- 
pecially if  he 's  Nick."  These  last  words  caused 
the  eyes  of  Peter  Sherringham's  companions  to 
meet  again,  and  he  went  on  :  "  She  '11  go  straight 
down  to  Harsh." 

"  Wonderful  Julia !"  Lady  Agnes  panted.  "Of 
course  Nick  must  go  straight  there,  too." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  he  must  see  first  if  they  '11 
have  him." 

"  If  they  '11  have  him  ?  Why,  how  can  he  tell 
till  he  tries  ?  " 

"  I  mean  the  people  at  headquarters,  the  fel- 
lows who  arrange  it." 


IJO  THE   TRAGTC  MUSE. 

Lady  Agnes  colored  a  little.  "  My  dear  Peter, 
do  you  suppose  there  will  be  the  least  doubt  of 
their  '  having'  the  son  of  his  father  ?" 

"  Of  course  it 's  a  great  name,  cousin  Agnes  — 
a  very  great  name." 

"  One  of  the  greatest,  simply,"  said  Lady  Agnes, 
smiling. 

"  It  's  the  best  name  in  the  world ! "  Grace 
Dormer  subjoined. 

"  All  the  same  it  did  n't  prevent  his  losing  his 
seat." 

"  By  half  a  dozen  votes  :  it  was  too  odious  !  " 
her  ladyship  cried. 

"  I  remember  —  I  remember.  And  in  such  a 
sase  as  that  why  did  n't  they  immediately  put 
him  in  somewhere  else  ?  " 

"  How  one  sees  that  you  live  abroad,  Peter ! 
There  happens  to  have  been  the  most  extraor- 
dinary lack  of  openings  —  I  never  saw  anything 
like  it  — for  a  year.  They  've  had  their  hand  on 
him,  keeping  him  all  ready.  I  dare  say  they  've 
telegraphed  to  him." 

"And  he  has  n't  told  you  ? " 

Lady  Agnes  hesitated.  "He's  so  odd  when 
he  's  abroad  ! " 

"At  home,  too,  he  lets  things  go,"  Grace  in- 
terposed. "  He  does  so  little  —  takes  no  trou- 
ble." Her  mother  suffered  this  statement  to 
pass  unchallenged,  and  she  pursued,  philosophi- 
cally, "  I  suppose  it 's  because  he  knows  he  's 
so  clever." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  51 

"  So  he  is,  dear  old  boy.  But  what  does  he  do, 
what  has  he  been  doing,  in  a  positive  way  ?  " 

"  He  has  been  painting." 

"  Ah,  not  seriously  !  "  Lady  Agnes  protested. 

"  That 's  the  worst  way,"  said  Peter  Sherring- 
ham.  "  Good  things  ? " 

Neither  of  the  ladies  made  a  direct  response  to 
this,  but  Lady  Agnes  said,  "  He  has  spoken  re- 
peatedly. They  are  always  calling  on  him." 

"  He  speaks  magnificently,"  Grace  attested. 

"  That  's  another  of  the  things  I  lose,  living 
in  far  countries.  And  he 's  doing  the  Salon,  now, 
with  great  Biddy  ? " 

"  Just  the  things  in  this  part.  I  can't  think 
what  keeps  them  so  long,"  Lady  Agnes  rejoined. 
"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  dreadful  place  ?  " 

Sherringham  stared.  "  Are  n't  the  things 
good  ?  I  had  an  idea"  — 

"  Good  ? "  cried  Lady  Agnes.  "  They  're  too 
odious,  too  wicked." 

"Ah,"  said  Peter,  laughing,  "that's  what  peo- 
ple fall  into,  if  they  live  abroad.  The  French 
ought  n't  to  live  abroad !  " 

"  Here  they  come,"  Grace  announced,  at  this 
point ;  "  but  they  've  got  a  strange  man  with 
them." 

"  That 's  a  bore,  when  we  want  to  talk  !  "  Lady 
A.gnes  sighed. 

Peter  got  up,  in  the  spirit  of  welcome,  and 
stood  a  moment  watching  the  others  approach. 


52  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  There  will  be  no  difficulty  in  talking,  to  judge 
by  the  gentleman,"  he  suggested  ;  and  while  he 
remains  so  conspicuous  our  eyes  may  rest  on 
him  briefly.  He  was  middling  high  and  was  vis- 
ibly a  representative  of  the  nervous  rather  than 
of  the  phlegmatic  branch  of  his  race.  He  had 
an  oval  face,  fine,  firm  features  and  a  complex- 
ion that  tended  to  the  brown.  Brown  were  his 
eyes,  and  women  thought  them  soft ;  dark  brown 
his  hair,  in  which  the  same  critics  sometimes  re- 
gretted the  absence  of  a  little  undulation.  It  was 
perhaps  to  conceal  this  plainness  that  he  wore  it 
very  short.  His  teeth  were  white  ;  his  moustache 
was  pointed,  and  so  was  the  small  beard  that 
adorned  the  extremity  of  his  chin.  His  face  ex- 
pressed intelligence  and  was  very  much  alive, 
and  had  the  further  distinction  that  it  often 
struck  superficial  observers  with  a  certain  for- 
eignness  of  cast.  The  deeper  sort,  however, 
usually  perceived  that  it  was  English  enough. 
There  was  an  idea  that,  having  taken  up  the 
diplomatic  career  and  gone  to  live  in  strange 
lands,  he  cultivated  the  mask  of  an  alien,  an 
Italian  or  a  Spaniard ;  of  an  alien  in  time,  even 
—  one  of  the  wonderful  ubiquitous  diplomatic 
agents  of  the  sixteenth  century.  In  fact,  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  be  more  modern  than 
Peter  Sherringham,  and  more  of  one's  class  and 
one's  country.  But  this  did  not  prevent  a  por- 
tion of  the  community  —  Bridget  Dormer,  for  in- 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  53 

stance  —  from  admiring  the  hue  of  his  cheek  for 
its  olive  richness  and  his  moustache  and  beard 
for  their  resemblance  to  those  of  Charles  I.  At 
the  same  time  —  she  rather  jumbled  her  com- 
parisons —  she  thought  h*j  looked  like  a  Titian. 


PETER'S  meeting  with  Nick  was  of  the  friend- 
liest on  both  sides,  involving  a  great  many  "  dear 
fellows "  and  "  old  boys,"  and  his  salutation  to 
the  younger  of  the  Miss  Dormers  consisted  of 
the  frankest  "Delighted  to  see  you,  my  dear 
Bid  ! "  Thtre  was  no  kissing,  but  there  was 
cousinship  in  the  air,  of  a  conscious,  living  kind, 
as  Gabriel  Nash  no  doubt  quickly  perceived,  hov- 
ering for  a  moment  outside  the  group.  Biddy  said 
nothing  to  Peter  Sherringham,  but  there  was  no 
flatness  in  a  silence  which  afforded  such  oppor- 
tunities for  a  pretty  smile.  Nick  introduced  Ga- 
briel Nash  to  his  mother  and  to  the  other  two  as 
"  a  delightful  old  friend."  whom  he  had  just  come 
across,  and  Sherringham  acknowledged  the  act 
by  saying  to  Mr.  Nash,  but  as  if  rather  less  for 
his  sake  than  for  that  of  the  presenter,  "  I  have 
seen  you  very  often  before." 

"  Ah,  repetition  — recurrence  :  we  have  n't  yet, 
in  the  study  of  how  to  live,  abolished  that  clum- 
siness, have  we  ? "  Mr.  Nash  genially  inquired. 
"  It 's  a  poverty  in  the  supernumeraries  that  we 
don't  pass  once  for  all,  but  come  round  and  cross 
again,  like  a  procession  at  the  theatre.  It 's  a 
shabby  economy  that  ought  to  have  been  man- 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  55 

aged  better,  The  right  thing  would  be  just  one 
appearance,  and  the  procession,  regardless  of  ex- 
pense, forever  and  forever  different." 

The  company  was  occupied  in  placing  itself  at 
table,  so  that  the  only  disengaged  attention,  for 
the  moment,  was  Grace's,  to  whom,  as  her  eyes 
rested  on  him,  the  young  man  addressed  these 
last  words  with  a  smile.  "Alas,  it 's  a  very  shabby 
idea,  is  n't  it  ?  The  world  is  n't  got  up  regard- 
less of  expense ! " 

Grace  looked  quickly  away  from  him,  and  said 
to  her  brother,  "  Nick,  Mr.  Pinks  is  dead." 

"  Mr.  Pinks  ?  "  asked  Gabriel  Nash,  appearing 
to  wonder  where  he  should  sit. 

"  The  member  for  Harsh ;  and  Julia  wants 
}ou  to  stand,"  the  girl  went  on. 

"  Mr.  Pinks,  the  member  for  Harsh  ?  What 
names,  to  be  sure!"  Gabriel  mused  cheerfully, 
still  unseated. 

"  Julia  wants  me  ?  I  'm  much  obliged  to  her  ! " 
observed  Nicholas  Dormer.  "  Nash,  please  sit 
by  my  mother,  with  Peter  on  her  other  side." 

"My  dear,  it  isn't  Julia,"  Lady  Agnes  re- 
marked, earnestly,  to  her  son.  "  Every  one  wants 
•you.  Haven't  you  heard  from  your  people? 
Did  n't  you  know  the  seat  was  vacant  ? " 

Nick  was  looking  round  the  table,  to  see  what 
was  on  it.  "  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  remember. 
What  else  have  you  ordered,  mother  ?" 

"There's  some  bceuf  brais/,  my  dear,  and  after- 
wards some  galantine.  Here  is  a  dish  of  eggs 
with  asparagus-tips." 


56  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  I  advise  you  to  go  in  for  it,  Nick,"  said  Peter 
Sherringham,  to  whom  the  preparation  in  ques- 
tion was  presented. 

"  Into  the  eggs  with  asparagus-tips  ?  Donnez 
m'en,  s'il  vous  plait.  My  dear  fellow,  how  can  I 
stand  ?  how  can  I  sit  ?  Where  's  the  money  to 
come  from  ? " 

"  The  money  ?  Why  from  Jul —  "  Grace  be- 
gan, but  immediately  caught  her  mother's  eye. 

"  Poor  Julia,  how  you  do  work  her  ! "  Nick 
exclaimed.  "  Nash,  I  recommend  you  the  aspar- 
agus-tips. Mother,  he 's  my  best  friend ;  do  look 
after  him." 

"I  have  an  impression  I  have  breakfasted  —  I 
am  not  sure,"  Nash  observed. 

"  With  those  beautiful  ladies  ?  Try  again  ; 
you'll  find  out." 

"  The  money  can  be  managed  ;  the  expenses 
are  very  small,  and  the  seat  is  certain,"  Lady 
Agnes  declared,  not,  apparently,  heeding  her  son's 
injunction  in  respect  to  Nash. 

"  Rather  —  if  Julia  goes  down ! "  her  elder 
daughter  exclaimed. 

"  Perhaps  Julia  won't  go  down ! "  Nick  an- 
swered, humorously. 

Biddy  was  seated  next  to  Mr.  Nash,  so  that 
she  could  take  occasion  to  ask,  "  Who  are  the 
beautiful  ladies  ? "  as  if  she  failed  to  recognize 
her  brother's  allusion.  In  reality  this  was  an 
innocent  trick :  she  was  more  curious  than  she 
could  have  given  a  suitable  reason  for  about  the 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  57 

odd  women  from  whom  her  neighbor  had  sepa- 
rated. 

"  Deluded,  misguided,  infatuated  persons  !  " 
Gabriel  Nash  replied,  understanding  that  she 
had  asked  for  a  description.  "  Strange,  eccentric, 
almost  romantic  types.  Predestined  victims, 
simple-minded  sacrificial  lambs  !  " 

This  was  copious,  yet  it  was  vague,  so  that 
Biddy  could  only  respond,  "Oh!"  But  mean- 
while Peter  Sherringham  said  to  Nick,  "Julia's 
here,  you  know.  You  must  go  and  see  her." 

Nick  looked  at  him  for  an  instant  rather  hard, 
as  if  to  say,  "  You  too  ? "  But  Peter's  eyes  ap- 
peared to  answer,  "  No,  no,  not  I ;  "  upon  which 
his  cousin  rejoined,  "  Of  course  I  '11  go  and  see 
her.  I  '11  go  immediately.  Please  to  thank  her 
for  thinking  of  me." 

"  Thinking  of  you  ?  There  are  plenty  to  think 
of  you  ! "  Lady  Agnes  said.  "  There  are  sure  to 
be  telegrams  at  home.  We  must  go  back  —  we 
must  go  back  !" 

"  We  must  go  back  to  England  ? "  Nick  Dor- 
mer asked ;  and  as  his  mother  made  no  answer 
he  continued,  "Do  you  mean  I  must  go  to 
Harsh  ? " 

Her  ladyship  evaded  this  question,  inquiring  of 
Mr.  Nash  if  he  would  have  a  morsel  of  fish  ;  but 
her  gain  was  small,  for  this  gentleman,  struck 
again  by  the  unhappy  name  of  the  bereaved  con- 
stituency, only  broke  out,  "  Ah,  what  a  place  to 
represent !  How  can  you  —  how  can  you  ?  " 


58  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  It 's  an  excellent  place,"  said  Lady  Agnes, 
coldly.  "  I  imagine  you  have  never  been  there. 
It 's  a  very  good  place  indeed.  It  belongs  very 
largely  to  my  cousin,  Mrs.  Dallow." 

Gabriel  partook  of  the  fish,  listening  with  inter- 
est. "  But  I  thought  we  had  no  more  pocket- 
boroughs." 

"  It 's  pockets  we  rather  lack,  so  many  of  us. 
There  are  plenty  of  Harshes,"  Nick  Dormer  ob- 
served. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Lady  Agnes 
said  to  Gabriel,  with  considerable  majesty. 

Peter  Sherringham  also  addressed  him  with  an 
"  Oh,  it 's  all  right ;  they  come  down  on  you  like 
a  shot !  "  and  the  young  man  continued  ingenu- 
ously — 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  to  pay  to  get 
into  that  place  —  that  it 's  not  you  that  are 
paid?" 

"  Into  that  place  ? "  Lady  Agnes  repeated, 
blankly. 

"  Into  the  House  of  Commons.  That  you 
don't  get  a  high  salary  ? " 

"  My  dear  Nash,  you  're  delightful :  don't  leave 
me  —  don't  leave  me!"  Nick  cried;  while  his 
mother  looked  at  him  with  an  eye  that  demanded, 
"  Who  is  this  extraordinary  person  ? " 

"  What  then  did  you  think  pocket-borough? 
were  ? "  Peter  Sherringham  asked. 

Mr.  Nash's  facial  radiance  rested  on  him. 
"  Why,  boroughs  that  filled  your  pocket.  To  do 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  59 

that  sort  of  thing  without  a  bribe — c'est  trap 
fort!" 

"He  lives  at  Samarcand,"  Nick  Dormer  ex- 
plained to  his  mother,  who  colored  perceptibly. 
"  What  do  you  advise  me  ?  I  '11  do  whatever  you 
say,"  he  went  on  to  his  old  acquaintance. 

"  My  dear  —  my  dear  !  "  Lady  Agnes  pleaded. 

"  See  Julia  first,  with  all  respect  to  Mr.  Nash. 
She's  of  excellent  counsel,"  said  Peter  Sher- 
ringham. 

Gabriel  Nash  smiled  across  the  table  at  Dor- 
mer. "  The  lady  first  —  the  lady  first !  I  have 
not  a  word  to  suggest  as  against  any  idea  of 
hers." 

"  We  must  not  sit  here  too  long,  there  will  be 
so  much  to  do,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  anxiously,  per- 
ceiving a  certain  slowness  in  the  service  of  the 
bceuf  braist. 

Biddy  had  been  up  to  this  moment  mainly  oc- 
cupied in  looking,  covertly  and  at  intervals,  at 
Peter  Sherringham  ;  as  was  perfectly  lawful  in 
a  young  lady  with  a  handsome  cousin  whom  she 
had  not  seen  for  more  than  a  year.  But  her 
sweet  voice  now  took  license  to  throw  in  the 
words,  "  We  know  what  Mr.  Nash  thinks  of  poli- 
tics :  he  told  us  just  now  he  thinks  they  are 
dreadful." 

"No,  not  dreadful  —  only  inferior,"  the  person- 
age impugned  protested.  "  Everything  is  rela- 
tive." 

"  Inferior  to  what  ? "  Lady  Agnes  demanded. 


60  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

Mr.  Nash  appeared  to  consider  a  moment.  "To 
anything  else  that  may  be  in  question." 

"  Nothing  else  is  in  question  ! "  said  her  lady- 
ship, in  a  tone  that  would  have  been  triumphant 
if  it  had  not  been  dry. 

"Ah,  then!"  And  her  neighbor  shook  his 
head  sadly.  He  turned,  after  this,  to  Biddy,  and 
said  to  her,  "The  ladies  whom  I  was  with  just 
now,  and  in  whom  you  were  so  good  as  to  express 
an  interest  ? "  Biddy  gave  a  sign  of  assent,  and 
he  went  on  :  "  They  are  persons  theatrical ;  the 
younger  one  is  trying  to  go  upon  the  stage." 

"And  are  you  assisting  her?"  Biddy  asked, 
pleased  that  she  had  guessed  so  nearly  right. 

" Not  in  the  least  —  I'm  rather  heading  her 
off.  I  consider  it  the  lowest  of  the  arts." 

"  Lower  than  politics  ? "  asked  Peter  Sherring- 
ham,  who  was  listening  to  this. 

"  Dear,  no,  I  won't  say  that.  I  think  the  Th6- 
dtre  Frangais  a  greater  institution  than  the  House 
of  Commons." 

"I  agree  with  you  there !"  laughed  Shernng- 
ham  ;  "  all  the  more  that  I  don't  consider  the 
dramatic  art  a  low  one.  On  the  contrary,  it 
seems  to  me  to  include  all  the  others." 

"  Yes  —  that 's  a  view.  I  think  it 's  the  view 
of  my  friends." 

"  Of  your  friends  ?  " 

"  Two  ladies  —  old  acquaintances  —  whom  I 
met  in  Paris  a  week  ago,  and  whom  I  have  just 
been  spending  an  hour  with  in  this  place." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  6l 

"  You  should  have  seen  them  ;  they  struck  me 
very  much,"  Biddy  said  to  her  cousin. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  them,  if  they  really  have 
anything  to  say  to  the  theatre." 

"It  can  easily  be  managed.  Do  you  believe 
in  the  theatre  ? "  asked  Gabriel  Nash. 

"Passionately,"  Sherringham  confessed.  "Don't 
you  ? " 

Before  Nash  had  had  time  to  answer,  Biddy 
had  interposed  with  a  sigh :  "  How  I  wish  I 
could  go  —  but  in  Paris  I  can't ! " 

"  I  '11  take  you  Biddy —  I  vow  I  '11  take  you." 

"  But  the  plays,  Peter,"  the  girl  objected. 
"  Mamma  says  they  're  worse  than  the  pictures." 

"  Oh,  we  '11  arrange  that :  they  shall  do  one  at 
the  Frangais  on  purpose  for  a  delightful  little 
English  girl." 

"  Can  you  make  them  ? " 

"  I  can  make  them  do  anything  I  choose." 

"Ah,  then,  it 's  the  theatre  that  believes  in  you," 
said  Gabriel  Nash. 

"  It  would  be  ungrateful  if  it  did  n't ! "  Peter 
Sherringham  laughed. 

Lady  Agnes  had  withdrawn  herself  from  be- 
tween him  and  Mr.  Nash,  and,  to  signify  that  she, 
at  least,  had  finished  eating,  had  gone  to  sit  by 
her  son,  whom  she  held,  with  some  importunity, 
in  conversation.  But  hearing  the  theatre  talked 
of,  she  threw  across  an  impersonal  challenge  to 
the  paradoxical  young  man.  "  Pray,  should  you 
think  it  better  for  a  gentleman  to  be  an  actor  ?  " 


62  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Better  than  being  a  politician  ?  Ah,  come- 
dian for  comedian,  is  n't  the  actor  more  honest  ? " 

Lady  Agnes  turned  to  her  son  and  exclaimed 
with  spirit,  "  Think  of  your  great  father,  Nicho- 
las !  " 

"  He  was  an  honest  man  ;  that  perhaps  is  why 
he  couldn't  stand  it." 

Peter  Sherringham  judged  the  colloquy  to  have 
taken  an  uncomfortable  twist,  though  not  wholly, 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  by  the  act  of  Nkklsjiueer 
comrade.  To  draw  it  back  to  safer  ground  he 
said  to  this  personage :  "  May  I  ask  if  the  ladies 
you  just  spoke  of  are  English  —  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Rooth  :  is  n't  that  the  rather  odd  name  ? " 

"  The  very  same.  Only  the  daughter,  accord- 
ing to  her  kind,  desires  to  be  known  by  some  nom 
de  guerre  before  she  has  even  been  able  to  en- 
list." 

"  And  what  does  she  call  herself  ? "  Bridget 
Dormer  asked. 

"  Maud  Vavasour,  or  Edith  Temple,  or  Gladys 
Vane  —  some  rubbish  of  that  sort." 

"  What,  then,  is  her  own  name  ? " 

"  Miriam  —  Miriam  Rooth.  It  would  do  very 
vrell  and  would  give  her  the  benefit  of  the  pre- 
possessing fact  that  (to  the  best  of  my  belief,  at 
least)  she  is  more  than  half  a  Jewess." 

"  It  is  as  good  as  Rachel  Felix,"  Sherringham 
laid. 

"  The  name 's  as  good,  but  not  the  talent.  The 
girl  is  magnificently  stupid." 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  63 

"  And  more  than  half  a  Jewess  ?  Don't  you 
believe  it !  "  Sherringham  exclaimed. 

"  Don't  believe  she 's  a  Jewess  ?  "  Biddy  asked, 
still  more  interested  in  Miriam  Rooth. 

"  No,  no  —  that  she 's  stupid,  really.  If  she  is, 
she  '11  be  the  first." 

"  Ah,  you  may  judge  for  yourself,"  Nash  re- 
joined, "if  you'll  come  to-morrow  afternoon  to 
Madame  Carre,  Rue  de  Constantinople,  a  f  en- 
tresol" 

"  Madame  Carre  ?  Why,  I  've  already  a  note 
from  her  —  I  found  it  this  morning  on  my  return 
to  Paris  —  asking  me  to  look  in  at  five  o'clock 
and  listen  to  a.jeune  Anglaise" 

"  That 's  my  arrangement  —  I  obtained  the  fa- 
vor.  The  ladies  want  an  opinion,  and  dear  old 
Carr6  has  consented  to  see  them  and  to  give  one. 
Gladys  will  recite  something  and  the  venerable 
artist  will  pass  judgment." 

Sherringham  remembered  that  he  had  his  note 
in  his  pocket,  and  he  took  it  out  and  looked  it 
over.  "  She  wishes  to  make  her  a  little  audience 
—  she  says  she'll  do  better  with  that  —  and  she 
asks  me  because  I  'm  English.  I  shall  make  a 
point  of  going." 

"And  bring  Dormer  if  you  can:  the  audience 
will  be  better.  Will  you  come,  Dormer  ? "  Mr. 
Nash  continued,  appealing  to  his  friend,  —  "will 
you  come  with  me  to  see  an  old  French  actress 
and  to  hear  an  English  amateur  recite  ?  " 

Nick  looked  round  from  his  talk  with  his  mo 


64  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

ther  and  Grace.  "  I  '11  go  anywhere  with  you,  so 
that,  as  I  've  told  you,  I  may  not  lose  sight  of 
you,  may  keep  hold  of  you." 

"  Poor  Mr.  Nash,  why  is  he  so  useful  ?  "  Lady 
Agnes  demanded  with  a  laugh. 

"  He  steadies  me,  mother." 

"Oh,  I  wish  you'd  take  me,  Peter,"  Biddy 
broke  out,  wistfully,  to  her  cousin. 

"To  spend  an  hour  with  an  old  French  ac- 
tress ?  Do  you  want  to  go  upon  the  stage  ? "  the 
young  man  inquired. 

"  No,  but  I  want  to  see  something,  to  know 
something." 

"  Madame  Carre  is  wonderful  in  her  way,  but 
she  is  hardly  company  for  a  little  English  girl." 

"  I  'm  not  little,  I  'm  only  too  big ;  and  she  goes, 
the  person  you  speak  of." 

"  For  a  professional  purpose,  and  with  her  good 
mother,"  smiled  Gabriel  Nash.  "  I  think  Lady 
Agnes  would  hardly  venture  "  — 

"  Oh,  I  've  seen  her  good  mother ! "  said  Biddy, 
as  if  she  had  an  impression  of  what  the  worth  of 
that  protection  might  be. 

"  Yes,  but  you  have  n't  heard  her.  It 's  then 
that  you  measure  her." 

Biddy  was  wistful  still.  "  Is  it  the  famous 
Honorine  Carre,  the  great  celebrity  ? " 

"  Honorine  in  person  :  the  incomparable,  the 
perfect !  "  said  Peter  Sherringham.  "  The  first 
artist  of  our  time,  taking  her  altogether.  She 
and  I  are  old  pals ;  she  has  been  so  good  as  to 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  65 

come  and  'say'  things,  as  she  does  sometimes 
still  dans  le  monde,  as  no  one  else  does,  in  my 
rooms." 

"  Make  her  come,  then  ;  we  can  go  there  !  " 

"  One  of  these  days  !  " 

"  And  the  young  lady  —  Miriam,  Edith,  Gladys 
—  make  her  come  too." 

Sherringham  looked  at  Nash  and  the  latter  ex- 
claimed, "Oh,  you'll  have  no  difficulty;  she'll 
jump  at  it !  " 

"Very  good;  I  '11  give  a  little  artistic  tea,  with 
Julia,  too,  of  course.  And  you  must  come,  Mr. 
Nash."  This  gentleman  promised,  with  an  in- 
clination, and  Peter  continued  :  "  But  if,  as  you 
say,  you  're  not  for  helping  the  young  lady,  how 
came  you  to  arrange  this  interview  with  the  great 
model  ? " 

"  Precisely  to  stop  her.  The  great  model  will 
find  her  very  bad.  Her  judgments,  as  you  prob- 
ably know,  are  Rhadamanthine." 

"  Poor  girl !  "  said  Biddy.  "  I  think  you  're 
cruel." 

"  Never  mind ;  I  '11  look  after  them,"  said  Sher- 
ringham. 

"  And  how  can  Madame  Carr6  judge,  if  the  girl 
recites  English  ? " 

"She's  so  intelligent  that  she  could  judge  if 
she  recited  Chinese,"  Peter  declared. 

"That's  true,  but  the  jeune  Anglaise  recites 
also  in  French,"  said  Gabriel  Nash. 

"Then  she  isn't  stupid." 


66  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  And  in  Italian,  and  in  several  more  tongues, 
for  aught  I  know." 

Sherringham  was  visibly  interested.  "  Very 
good  ;  we  '11  put  her  through  them  all." 

"  She  must  be  most  clever,"  Biddy  went  on, 
yearningly. 

"  SEeThas  spent  her  life  on  the  Continent ;  she 
has  wandered  about  with  her  mother ;  she  has 
picked  up  things." 

"  And  is  she  a  lady  ? "  Biddy  asked. 

"  Oh,  tremendous !  The  great  ones  of  the 
earth  on  the  mother's  side.  On  the  father's,  on 
the  other  hand,  I  imagine,  only  a  Jew  stockbroker 
in  the  city." 

"Then  they're  ric  -or  ought  to  be,"  Sher- 
ringham suggested. 

"Ought  to  be — -an,  there's  the  bitterness! 
The  stockbroker  had  too  short  a  go  —  he  was 
carried  off  in  his  flower.  However,  he  left  his 
wife  a  certain  property,  which  she  appears  to 
have  muddled  away,  not  having  the  safeguard  of 
being  herself  a  Hebrew.  This  is  what  she  lived 
upon  till  to-day  —  this  and  another  resource. 
Her  husband,  as  she  has  often  told  me,  had  the 
artistic  temperament  ;  that's  common,  as  you 
know,  among  ces  messieurs.  He  made  the  most 
of  his  little  opportunities  and  collected  various 
pictures,  tapestries,  enamels,  porcelains  and  simi- 
lar gewgaws.  He  parted  with  them  also,  I  gather, 
at  a  profit ;  in  short,  he  carried  on  a  neat  little 
business  as  a  brocanteur.  It  was  nipped  in  the 


THR    TRAGIC  MUSE.  67 

bud,  but  Mrs.  Rooth  was  left  with  a  certain  num- 
ber of  these  articles  in  her  hands ;  indeed  they 
must  have  constituted  the  most  palpable  part  of 
her  heritage.  She  was  not  a  woman  of  business  ; 
she  turned  them,  no  doubt,  to  indifferent  account ; 
but  she  sold  them  piece  by  piece,  and  they  kept 
her  going  while  her  daughter  grew  up.  It  was  to 
this  precarious  traffic,  conducted  with  extraor- 
dinary mystery  and  delicacy,  that,  five  years  ago, 
in  Florence,  I  was  indebted  for  my  acquaintance 
with  her.  In  those  days  I  used  to  collect  — 
heaven  help  me  !  —  I  used  to  pick  up  rubbish 
which  I  could  ill  afford.  It  was  a  little  phase  — 
we  have  our  little  phases,  have  n't  we  ? "  asked 
Gabriel"  Nash,  with  cKtiaiflcifTriist  —  "  and  I  have 
come  out  on  the  other  side.  Mrs.  Rooth  had  an 
old  green  pot,  and  I  heard  of  her  old  green  pot. 
To  hear  of  it  was  to  long  for  it,  so  that  I  went  to 
see  it,  under  cover  of  night.  I  bought  it,  and  a 
couple  of  years  ago  I  overturned  it  and  smashed 
it.  It  was  the  last  of  the  little  phase.  It  was 
not,  however,  as  you  have  seen,  the  last  of  Mrs. 
Rooth.  I  saw  her  afterwards  in  London,  and  I 
met  her  a  year  or  two  ago,  in  Venice.  She  ap- 
pears to  be  a  great  wanderer.  She  had  other  old 
pots,  of  other  colors,  red,  yellow,  black,  or  blue 
—  she  could  produce  them  of  any  complexion  you 
liked.  I  don't  know  whether  she  carried  them 
about  with  her  or  whether  she  had  little  secret 
stores  in  the  principal  cities  of  Europe.  To-day, 
at  any  rate,  they  seem  all  gone.  On  the  other 


68  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

hand,  she  has  her  daughter,  who  has  grown  up 
and  who  is  a  precious  vase  of  another  kind  —  less 
fragile,  I  hope,  than  the  rest.  May  she  not  be 
overturned  and  smashed  !  " 

Peter  Sherringham  and  Biddy  Dormer  listened 
with  attention  to  this  history,  and  the  girl  tes- 
tified to  the  interest  with  which  she  had  followed 
it  by  saying,  when  Mr.  Nash  had  ceased  speak- 
ing, "A  Jewish  stockbroker,  a  dealer  in  curiosi- 
ties :  what  an  odd  person  to  marry  —  for  a  per- 
son who  was  well  born !  I  dare  say  he  was  a 
German." 

"  His  name  must  have  been  simply  Roth,  and 
the  poor  lady,  to  smarten  it  up,  has  put  in  an- 
other o"  Sherringham  ingeniously  suggested. 

"  You  are  both  very  clever,"  said  Gabriel  Nash, 
"  and  Rudolf  Roth,  as  I  happen  to  know,  was  in- 
deed the  designation  of  Maud  Vavasour's  papa. 
But,  as  far  as  the  question  of  derogation  goes,  one 
might  as  well  drown  as  starve,  for  what  connec- 
tion is  not  a  misalliance  when  one  happens  to  have 
the  cumbersome,  the  unaccommodating  honor  of 
being  a  Neville-Nugent  of  Castle  Nugent  ?  Such 
was  the  high  lineage  of  Maud's  mamma.  I  seem 
to  have  heard  it  mentioned  that  Rudolf  Roth  was 
very  versatile  and,  like  most  of  his  species,  not 
unacquainted  with  the  practice  of  music.  He  had 
been  employed  to  teach  the  harmonium  to  Miss 
Neville-Nugent  and  she  had  profited  by  his  les- 
sons. If  his  daughter  is  like  him  —  and  she  is 
not  like  her  mother — he  was  darkly  and  danger- 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  69 

ously  handsome.  So  I  venture  rapidly  to  recon- 
struct the  situation." 

A  silence,  for  the  moment,  had  fallen  upon 
Lady  Agnes  and  her  other  two  children,  so  that 
Mr.  Nash,  with  his  universal  urbanity,  practically 
addressed  these  last  remarks  to  them  as  well  as 
to  his  other  auditors.  Lady  Agnes  looked  as  if 
she  wondered  whom  he  was  talking  about,  and 
having  caught  the  name  of  a  noble  residence  she 
inquired  — 

"  Castle  Nugent  —  where  is  that  ? " 

"It's  a  domain  of  immeasurable  extent  and 
almost  inconceivable  splendor,  but  I  fear  it  is  n't 
to  be  found  in  any  prosaic  earthly  geography  !  " 
Lady  Agnes  rested  her  eyes  on  the  tablecloth, 
as  if  she  were  not  sure  a  liberty  had  not  been 
taken  with  her,  and  while  Mr.  Nash  continued  to 
abound  in  descriptive  suppositions  —  "  It  must 
be  on  the  banks  of  the  Manzanares  or  the  Guadal- 
quivir "  —  Peter  Sherringham,  whose  imagina- 
tion appeared  to  have  been  strongly  kindled  by 
the  sketch  of  Miriam  Rooth,  challenging  him 
sociably,  reminded  him  that  he  had,  a  short  time 
before,  assigned  a  low  place  to  the  dramatic  art 
and  had  not  yet  answered  his  question  as  to 
whether  he  believed  in  the  theatre.  This  gave 
Nash  an  opportunity  to  go  on : 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  understand  your  ques- 
tion ;  there  are  different  ways  of  taking  it.  Do 
I  think  it 's  important  ?  Is  that  what  you  mean  ? 
Important,  certainly,  to  managers  and  stage-car- 


7O  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

penters  who  want  to  make  money,  to  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  want  to  produce  themselves 
in  public  by  lime-light,  and  to  other  ladies  and 
gentlemen  who  are  bored  and  stupid  and  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  their  evening.  It 's  a  com- 
mercial and  social  convenience  which  may  be  in- 
finitely worked.  But  important  artistically,  in- 
tellectually ?  How  can  it  be  —  so  poor,  so  limited 
a  form  ? " 

"  Dear  me,  it  strikes  me  as  so  rich,  so  various  ! 
Do  you  think  it's  poor  and  limited,  Nick?" 
Sherringham  added,  appealing  to  his  kinsman. 

"I  think  whatever  Nash  thinks.  I  have  no 
i  opinion  to-day  but  his." 

This  answer  of  Nick  Dormer's  drew  the  eyes 
of  his  mother  and  sisters  to  him  and  caused  his 
friend  to  exclaim  that  he  was  not  used  to  such 
responsibilities,  so  few  people  had  ever  tested  his 
presence  of  mind  by  agreeing  with  him. 

"  Oh,  I  used  to  be  of  your  way  of  feeling," 
Nash  said  to  Sherringham.  "  I  understand  you 
perfectly.  It 's  a  phase  like  another.  I  've  been 
through  it — fai  tit  comme  ga" 

"  And  you  went,  then,  very  often  to  the  Th6- 
£tre  Fran^ais,  and  it  was  there  I  saw  you.  I 
place  you  now." 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  noticed  none  of  the  other  spec- 
tators," Nash  explained.  "  I  had  no  attention 
but  for  the  great  Carr6  —  she  was  still  on  the 
stage.  Judge  of  my  infatuation,  and  how  I  can 
q,llow  for  yours,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  sought  her 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  7* 

acquaintance,  that  I  could  n't  rest  till  I  had  told 
her  that  I  hung  upon  her  lips." 

"  That 's  just  what  /told  her,"  returned  Sher- 
ringham. 

"  She  was  very  kind  to  me.     She  said,  '  Vous 
me  rendez  des  forces.'  " 
"  That  's  just  what  she  said  to  me  !  " 
"  And  we  have  remained  very  good  friends." 
"  So  have  we !  "  laughed  Sherringham.     "  And 
such  perfect  art  as  hers  :  do  you  mean  to  say 
you  don't  consider  that  important  —  such  a  rare 
dramatic  intelligence  ? " 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  read  the  feuilletons.  You 
catch  their  phrases,"  Gabriel  Nash  blandly  re- 
joined. "  Dramatic  intelligence  is  never  rare  ; 
nothing  is  more  common." 

"  Then  why  have  we  so  many  bad  actors  ? " 
"  Have  we  ?  I  thought  they  were  mostly  good  ; 
succeeding  more  easily  and  more  completely  in 
that  business  than  in  anything  else.  What  could 
they  do  —  those  people,  generally  —  if  they  did  n't 
do  that  ?  And  reflect  that  that  enables  them  to 
succeed  !  Of  course,  always,  there  are  numbers 
of  people  on  the  stage  who  are  no  actors  at  all, 
for  it 's  even  easier  to  our  poor  humanity  to  be 
ineffectively  stupid  and  vulgar  than  to  bring  down 
the  house." 

"  It 's  not  easy,  by  what  I  can  see,  to  produce, 
completely,  any  artistic  effect,"  Sherringham  de- 
clared ;  "  and  those  that  the  actor  produces  are 
among  the  most  moving  that  we  know.  You  '11 


72  THE  TRAGIC  MUSE. 

not  persuade  me  that  to  watch  such  an  actress  as 
Madame  Carre  was  not  an  education  of  the  taste, 
an  enlargement  of  one's  knowledge." 

"  She  did  what  she  could,  poor  woman,  but  in 
what  belittling,  coarsening  conditions  !  She  had 
to  interpret  a  character  in  a  play,  and  a  character 
in  a  play  (not  to  say  the  whole  piece  —  I  speak 
more  particularly  of  modern  pieces)  is  such  a 
wretchedly  small  peg  to  hang  anything  on  !  The 
dramatist  shows  us  so  little,  is  so  hampered  by  his 
audience,  is  restricted  to  so  poor  an  analysis." 

"  I  know  the  complaint.  It  's  all  the  fashion 
now.  The  raffints  despise  the  theatre,"  said 
Peter  Sherringham,  in  the  manner  of  a  man 
abreast  with  the  culture  of  his  age  and  not  to  be 
captured  by  a  surprise.  "  Connu,  connu  !  " 

"  It  will  be  known  better  yet,  won't  it  ?  when 
the  essentially  brutal  nature  of  the  modern  au- 
dience is  still  more  perceived,  when  it  has  been 
properly  analyzed  :  the  omnium  gatherum  of  the 
population  of  a  big  commercial  city,  at  the  hour 
of  the  day  when  their  taste  is  at  its  lowest,  flock- 
ing out  of  hideous  hotels  and  restaurants,  gorged 
with  food,  stultified  with  buying  and  selling  and 
with  all  the  other  sordid  preoccupations  of  the 
day,  squeezed  together  in  a  sweltering  mass,  dis- 
appointed in  their  seats,  timing  the  author,  timing 
the  actor,  wishing  to  get  their  money  back  on  the 
spot,  before  eleven  o'clock.  Fancy  putting  the 
exquisite  before  such  a  tribunal  as  that !  There  's 
not  even  a  question  of  it.  The  dramatist  would  n't 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  73 

if  he  could,  and  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  he  could  n't 
if  he  would.  He  has  to  make  the  basest  conces- 
sions. One  of  his  principal  canons  is  that  he  must 
enable  his  spectators  to  catch  the  suburban  trains, 
which  stop  at  1 1 : 30.  What  would  you  think  of 
any  other  artist  —  the  painter  or  the  novelist  — 
whose  governing  forces  should  be  the  dinner  and 
the  suburban  trains  ?  The  old  dramatists  did  n't 
defer  to  them  (not  so  much,  at  least),  and  that  's 
why  they  are  less  and  less  actable.  If  they  are 
touched  —  the  large  fellows  —  it 's  only  to  be 
mutilated  and  trivialized.  Besides,  they  had  a 
simpler  civilization  to  represent  —  societies  in 
which  the  life  of  man  was  in  action,  in  passion, 
in  immediate  and  violent  expression.  Those 
things  could  be  put  upon  the  playhouse  boards 
with  comparatively  little  sacrifice  of  their  com- 
pleteness and  their  truth.  To-day  we  are  so  in- 
finitely more  reflective  and  complicated  and  dif- 
fuse that  it  makes  all  the  difference.  What  can 
you  do  with  a  character,  with  an  idea,  with  a 
feeling,  between  dinner  and  the  suburban  trains  ? 
You  can  give  a  gross,  rough  sketch  of  them,  but 
how  little  you  touch  them,  how  bald  you  leave 
them  !  What  crudity  compared  with  what  the 
novelist  does ! " 

"  Do  you  write  novels,  Mr.  Nash  ? "  Peter  de- 
manded. 

"  No,  but  I  read  them  when  they  are  extraor- 
dinarily good,  and  I  don't  go  to  plays.  I  read 
Balzac,  for  instance  —  I  encounter  the  magnifr 


74  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

cent  portrait  of  Valerie  Marneffe,  in  '  La  Cou- 
sine  Bette.' " 

"And  you  contrast  it  with  the  poverty  of 
Emile  Augier's  Seraphine  in  '  Les  Lionnes 
Pauvres '  ?  I  was  awaiting  you  there.  That 's 
the  cheval  de  bataille  of  you  fellows." 

"  What  an  extraordinary  discussion !  What 
dreadful  authors !  "  Lady  Agnes  murmured  to 
her  son.  But  he  was  listening  so  attentively  to 
the  other  young  men  that  he  made  no  response, 
and  Peter  Sherringham  went  on  : 

"  I  have  seen  Madame  Carr6  in  parts,  in  the 
modern  repertory,  which  she  has  made  as  vivid  to 
n.e,  caused  to  abide  as  ineffaceably  in  my  mem, 
ory,  as  Valerie  Marneffe.  She  is  the  Balzac,  as 
one  may  say,  of  actresses." 

"The  miniaturist,  as  it  were,  of  whitewash- 
ersi"  Nash  rejoined,  laughing. 

It  might  have  been  guessed  that  Sherringham 
was  irritated,  but  the  other  disputant  was  so 
good-humored  that  he  abundantly  recognized  his 
own  obligation  to  appear  so. 

"  You  would  be  magnanimous  if  you  thought 
the  young  lady  you  have  introduced  to  our  old 
friend  would  be  important." 

"  She  might  be  much  more  so  than  she  ever 
will  be." 

Lady  Agnes  got  up,  to  terminate  the  scene, 
and  even  to  signify  that  enough  had  been  said 
about  people  and  questions  she  had  never  heard 
oL  Every  one  else  rose,  the  waiter  brought 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  75 

Nicholas  the  receipt  of  the  bill,  and  Sherringham 
went  on,  to  his  interlocutor  — 

"Perhaps  she  will  be  more  so  than  you  think." 

'•'  Perhaps  —  ML  you  take  an  interest  in  her  !  " 

"  A  mystic  voice  seems  to  exhort  me  to  do  so, 
to  whisper  that,  though  I  have  never  seen  her,  1 
shall  find  something  in  her.  What  do  you  say, 
Biddy,  shall  I  take  an  interest  in  her? " 

Biddy  hesitated  a  moment,  colored  a  little,  felt 
a  certain  embarrassment  in  being  publicly  treated 
as  an  oracle. 

"  If  she 's  not  nice  I  don't  advise  it." 

"  And  if  she  is  nice  ?  " 

"You  advise  it  still  less!"  her  brother  ex- 
claimed, laughing  and  putting  his  arm  round 
her. 

Lady  Agnes  looked  sombre — she  might  have 
been  saying  to  herself,  "  Dear  me,  what  chance 
has  a  girl  of  mine  with  a  man  who 's  so  agog 
about  actresses  ? "  She  was  disconcerted  and 
distressed  ;  a  multitude  of  incongruous  things,  all 
the  morning,  had  been  forced  upon  her  attention 
—  displeasing  pictures  and  still  more  displeasing 
theories  about  them,  vague  portents  of  perversity 
on  the  part  of  Nicholas,  and  a  strange  eagerness 
on  Peter's,  learned  apparently  in  Paris,  to  discuss, 
with  a  person  who  had  atone  she  never  had  been 
exposed  to,  topics  irrelevant  and  uninteresting, 
the  practical  effect  of  which  was  to  make  light  of 
her  presence.  "  Let  us  leave  this  —  let  us  leave 
this ! "  she  almost  moaned.  The  party  moved 


76  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

together  toward  the  door  of  departure,  and  her 
ruffled  spirit  was  not  soothed  by  hearing  her  son 
remark  to  his  terrible  friend,  "You  know  you 
don't  leave  us  —  I  stick  to  you !  " 

At  this  Lady  Agnes  broke  out  and  interposed, 
"  Excuse  me  for  reminding  you  that  you  are 
going  to  call  on  Julia." 

"  Well,  can't  Nash  also  come  to  call  on  Julia  ? 
That's  just  what  I  want  —  that  she  should  see 
him." 

Peter  Sherringham  came  humanely  to  her 
ladyship's  assistance.  "A  better  way,  perhaps, 
will  be  for  them  to  meet  under  my  auspices,  at 
my  '  dramatic  tea.'  This  will  enable  me  to  re- 
turn one  favor  for  another.  If  Mr.  Nash  is  so 
good  as  to  introduce  me  to  this  aspirant  for  hon- 
ors we  estimate  so  differently,  I  will  introduce 
him  to  my  sister,  a  much  more  positive  quan- 
tity." 

"  It  is  easy  to  see  who  '11  have  the  best  of  it !  " 
Grace  Dormer  exclaimed ;  and  Gabriel  Nash 
stood  there  serenely,  impartially,  in  a  graceful,  de- 
tached way  which  seemed  characteristic  of  him, 
assenting  to  any  decision  that  relieved  him  of 
the  grossness  of  choice  and  generally  confident 
that  things  would  turn  out  well  for  him.  He 
was  cheerfully  helpless  and  sociably  indifferent ; 
ready  to  preside,  with  a  smile,  even  at  a  discus- 
sion of  his  own  admissibility. 

"  Nick  will  bring  you.  I  have  a  little  corner 
at  the  Embassy,"  Sherringham  continued. 


THE  TRAGIC  MUSE.  77 

"You  are  very  kind.     You  must  bring  him, 
then,  to-morrow  —  Rue  de  Constantinople." 
"At  five  o'clock  —  don't  be  afraid." 
"  Oh,   dear ! "   said   Biddy,   as    they   went  on 
again  ;  and  Lady  Agnes,  seizing  his  arm,  marched 
off  more  quickly  with  her  son.     When  they  came 
out  into  the  Champs  Elysees  Nick  Dormer,  look- 
ing round,  saw  that  his  friend  had  disappeared. 
Biddy  had  attached  herself  to  Peter,  and  Grace, 
apparently,  had  not  encouraged  Mr.  Nash. 


V. 

LADY  AGNES'S  idea  had  been  that  her  son 
should  go  straight  from  the  Palais  de  1'Industrie 
to  the  H6tel  de  Hollande,  with  or  without  his 
mother  and  his  sisters,  as  his  humor  should  seem 
to  recommend.  Much  as  she  desired  to  see  their 
brilliant  kinswoman,  and  as  she  knew  that  her 
daughters  desired  it,  she  was  quite  ready  to  post- 
pone their  visit,  if  this  sacrifice  should  contribute 
to  a  speedy  confrontation  for  Nick.  She  was 
eager  that  he  should  talk  with  Mrs.  Dallow,  and 
eager  that  he  should  be  eager  himself  ;  but  it 
presently  appeared  that  he  was  really  not  any- 
thing that  could  impartially  be  called  so.  His 
view  was  that  she  and  the  girls  should  go  to  the 
H6tel  de  Hollande  without  delay,  and  should 
spend  the  rest  of  the  day  with  Julia,  if  they  liked. 
He  would  go  later  ;  he  would  go  in  the  evening. 
There  were  lots  of  things  he  wanted  to  do  mean- 
while. 

This  question  was  discussed  with  some  inten- 
sity, though  not  at  length,  while  the  little  party 
stood  on  the  edge  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
to  which  they  had  proceeded  on  foot  ;  and  Lady 
Agnes  noticed  that  the  "lots  of  things  "  to  which 
he  proposed  to  give  precedence  over  an  urgent 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  79 

duty,  a  conference  with  a  person  who  held  out 
full  hands  to  him,  were  implied  somehow  in  the 
friendly  glance  with  which  he  covered  the  great 
square,  the  opposite  bank  of  the  Seine,  the  steep 
blue  roofs  of  the  quay,  the  bright  immensity  of 
Paris.  What  in  the  world  could  be  more  impor- 
tant than  making  sure  of  his  seat  ?  —  so  quickly 
did  the  good  lady's  imagination  travel.  And  now 
that  idea  appealed  to  him  less  than  a  ramble  in 
search  of  old  books  and  prints,  for  she  was  sure 
this  was  what  he  had  in  his  head.  Julia  would 
be  flattered  if  she  knew  it,  but  of  course  she 
must  not  know  it.  Lady  Agnes  was  already 
thinking  of  the  most  honorable  explanations  she 
could  give  of  the  young  man's  want  of  precipita- 
tion. She  would  have  liked  to  represent  him  as 
tremendously  occupied,  in  his  room  at  their  own 
hotel,  in  getting  off  political  letters  to  every  one 
it  should  concern,  and  particularly  in  drawing  up 
his  address  to  the  electors  of  Harsh.  Fortu- 
nately she  was  a  woman  of  innumerable  discre- 
tions, and  a  part  of  the  worn  look  that  sat  in  her 
face  came  from  her  having  schooled  herself  for 
years,  in  her  relations  with  her  husband  and  her 
sons,  not  to  insist  unduly.  She  would  have  liked 
to  insist,  nature  had  formed  her  to  insist,  and  the 
self-control  had  told  in  more  ways  than  one. 
Even  now  it  was  powerless  to  prevent  her  sug- 
gesting that  before  doing  anything  else  Nick 
should  at  least  repair  to  the  inn  and  see  if  there 
were  not  some  telegrams. 


8O  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

He  freely  consented  to  do  so  much  as  this,  and 
having  called  a  cab,  that  she  might  go  her  way 
with  the  girls,  he  kissed  her  again,  as  he  had 
done  at  the  exhibition.  This  was  an  attention 
that  could  never  displease  her,  but  somehow  when 
he  kissed  her  often  her  anxiety  was  apt  to  in- 
crease :  she  had  come  to  recognize  it  as  a  sign 
that  he  was  slipping  away  from  her.  She  drove 
off  with  a  vague  sense  that  at  any  rate  she  and 
the  girls  might  do  something  toward  keeping  the 
place  warm  for  him.  She  had  been  a  little  vexed 
that  Peter  had  not  administered  more  of  a  push 
toward  the  H6tel  de  Hollande,  clear  as  it  had  be- 
come to  her  now  that  there  was  a  foreignness  in 
Peter  which  was  not  to  be  counted  on,  and  which 
made  him  speak  of  English  affairs  and  even  of 
English  domestic  politics  as  local.  Of  course 
they  were  local,  and  was  not  that  the  warm  hu- 
man comfort  of  them  ?  As  she  left  the  two 
young  men  standing  together  in  the  middle  of 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  the  grand  composition 
of  which  Nick,  as  she  looked  back,  appeared  to 
have  paused  to  'admire  (as  if  he  had  not  seen  it 
a  thousand  times !),  she  wished  she  might  have 
thought  of  Peter's  influence  with  her  son  as  ex- 
erted a  little  more  in  favor  of  localism.  She  had 
a  sense  that  he  would  not  abbreviate  the  boy's  ill- 
timed  fidnerie.  However,  he  had  been  very  nice : 
he  had  invited  them  all  to  dine  with  him  that 
evening  at  a  convenient  restaurant,  promising  to 
bring  Julia  and  one  of  his  colleagues.  So  much 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  8 1 

as  this  he  had  been  willing  to  do  to  make  sure 
that  Nick  and  his  sister  should  meet.  His  want 
of  localism,  moreover,  was  not  so  great  as  that  if 
it  should  turn  out  that  there  was  anything  be- 
neath his  manner  toward  Biddy  — !  The  conclu- 
sion of  this  reflection  is,  perhaps,  best  indicated 
by  the  circumstance  of  her  ladyship's  remarking, 
after  a  minute,  to  her  younger  daughter,  who  sat 
opposite  to  her  in  the  voiture  de place,  that  it  would 
do  no  harm  if  she  should  get  a  new  hat,  and  that 
the  article  might  be  purchased  that  afternoon. 

"  A  French  hat,  mamma  ?  "  said  Grace.     "  Oh, 
do  wait  till  she  gets  home  !  " 

"I  think  they  are  prettier  here,  you  know," 
Biddy  rejoined  ;  and  Lady  Agnes  said,  simply, 
"  I  dare  say  they  're  cheaper."  What  was  in  her 
mind,  in  fact,  was,  "  I  dare  say  Peter  thinks  them 
becoming."  It  will  be  seen  that  she  had  plenty 
of  spiritual  occupation,  the  sum  of  which  was 
not  diminished  by  her  learning,  when  she  reached 
the  top  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  that  Mrs.  Dallow 
had  gone  out  half  an  hour  before  and  had  left  no 
message.  She  was  more  disconcerted  by  this  in- 
cident than  she  could  have  explained  or  than  she 
thought  was  right,  for  she  had  taken  for  granted 
that  Julia  would  be  in  a  manner  waiting  for  them. 
How  did  she  know  that  Nick  was  not  coming  ? 
When  people  were  in  Paris  for  a  few  days  they 
did  n't  mope  in  the  house;  but  Julia  might  have 
waited  a  little  longer  or  might  have  left  an  expla 
nation.  Was  she  then  not  so  much  in  earnes* 


82  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

about  Nick's  standing  ?  Did  n't  she  recognize 
the  importance  of  being  there  to  see  him  about 
it  ?  Lady  Agnes  wondered  whether  Julia's  be- 
havior were  a  sign  that  she  was  already  tired  of 
the  way  this  young  gentleman  treated  her.  Per- 
haps she  had  gone  out  because  an  instinct  told 
her  that  its  being  important  he  should  see  her 
early  would  make  no  difference  with  him  —  told 
her  that  he  would  n't  come.  Her  heart  sank  as 
she  glanced  at  this  possibility  that  Julia  was  al- 
ready tired,  for  she,  on  her  side,  had  an  instinct 
there  were  still  more  tiresome  things  in  store. 
She  had  disliked  having  to  tell  Mrs.  Dallow  that 
Nick  would  n't  see  her  till  the  evening,  but  now 
she  disliked  still  more  her  not  being  there  to 
hear  it.  She  even  resented  a  little  her  kinswo- 
man's not  having  reasoned  that  she  and  the  girls 
would  come  in  any  event,  and  not  thought  them 
worth  staying  in  for.  It  occurred  to  her  that  she 
would,  perhaps,  have  gone  to  their  hotel,  which 
was  a  good  way  up  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  near  the 
Palais  Royal,  and  she  directed  the  cabman  to 
drive  to  that  establishment. 

As  he  jogged  along,  she  took  in  some  degree 
the  measure  of  what  that  might  mean,  Julia's 
seeking  a  little  to  avoid  them.  Was  she  growing 
to  dislike  them  ?  Did  she  think  they  kept  too 
sharp  an  eye  on  her,  so  that  the  idea  of  their 
standing  in  a  still  closer  relation  to  her  would  not 
be  enticing  ?  Her  conduct  up  to  this  time  had 
not  worn  such  an  appearance,  unless,  perhaps, 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  83 

a  little,  just  a  very  little,  in  the  matter  of  poor 
Grace.  Lady  Agnes  knew  that  she  was  not  par- 
ticularly fond  of  poor  Grace,  and  was  even  able 
to  guess  the  reason  —  the  manner  in  which  Grace 
betrayed  the  most  that  they  wanted  to  make  sure 
of  her.  She  remembered  how  long  the  girl  had 
stayed  the  last  time  she  had  gone  to  Harsh.  She 
had  gone  for  an  acceptable  week,  and  she  had 
been  in  the  house  a  month.  She  took  a  private, 
heroic  vow  that  Grace  should  not  go  near  the 
place  again  for  a  year ;  that  is,  not  unless  Nick 
and  Julia  were  married  before  this.  If  that  were 
to  happen,  she  should  n't  care.  She  recognized 
that  it  was  not  absolutely  everything  that  Julia 
should  be  in  love  with  Nick ;  it  was  also  better 
she  should  dislike  his  mother  and  sisters  after 
than  before.  Lady  Agnes  did  justice  to  the  nat- 
ural rule  in  virtue  of  which  it  usually  comes  to 
pass  that  a  woman  does  n't  get  on  with  her  hus- 
band's female  belongings,  and  was  even  willing 
to  be  sacrificed  to  it  in  her  disciplined  degree. 
But  she  desired  not  to  be  sacrificed  for  nothing : 
if  she  was  to  be  objected  to  as  a  mother-in-law, 
she  wished  to  be  the  mother-in-law  first. 

At  the  hotel  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  she  had  the 
disappointment  of  finding  that  Mrs.  Dallow  had 
not  called,  and  also  that  no  telegrams  had  come. 
She  went  in  with  the  girls  for  half  an  hour,  and 
then  she  straggled  out  with  them  again.  She  was 
undetermined  and  dissatisfied,  and  the  afternoon 
was  rather  a  problem  ;  of  the  kind,  moreover, 


84  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

that  she  disliked  most  and  was  least  accustomed 
to  :  not  a  choice  between  different  things  to  do 
(her  life  had  been  full  of  that),  but  a  want  of  any- 
thing to  do  at  all.  Nick  had  said  to  her  before 
they  separated,  "  You  can  knock  about  with  the 
girls,  you  know ;  everything  is  amusing  here." 
That  was  easily  said,  while  he  sauntered  and  gos- 
siped with  Peter  Sherringham  and  perhaps  went 
to  see  more  pictures  like  those  in  the  Salon.  He 
was  usually,  on  such  occasions,  very  good-natured 
about  spending  his  time  with  them  ;  but  this  epi- 
sode had  taken  altogether  a  perverse,  profane 
form.  She  had  no  desire  whatever  to~~knock 
about,  and  she  was  far  from  finding  everything  in 
Paris  amusing.  She  had  no  aptitude  for  aimless- 
ness,  and,  moreover,  she  thought  it  vulgar.  If 
she  had  found  Julia's  card  at  the  hotel  (the  sign 
of  a  hope  of  catching  them  just  as  they  came 
back  from  the  Salon),  she  would  have  made  a 
second  attempt  to  see  her  before  the  evening ; 
but  now  certainly  they  would  leave  her  alone. 
Lady  Agnes  wandered  joylessly  with  the  girls  in 
the  Palais  Royal  and  the  Rue  de  Richelieu,  and 
emerged  upon  the  Boulevard,  where  they  contin- 
ued their  frugal  prowl,  as  Biddy  rather  irritatingly 
called  it.  They  went  into  five  shops  to  buy  a 
hat  for  Biddy,  and  her  ladyship's  presuppositions 
of  cheapness  were  wofully  belied. 

"  Who  in  the  world  is  your  funny  friend  ? " 
Peter  Sherringham  asked  of  his  kinsman,  without 
loss  of  time,  as  they  walked  together. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  8$ 

"  Ah,  there 's  something  else  you  lost  by  going 
to  Cambridge  —  you  lost  Gabriel  Nash  !  " 

"He  sounds  like  an  Elizabethan  dramatist," 
Sherringham  said.  "  But  I  have  n't  lost  him, 
since  it  appears  now  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
have  you  without  him." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  wait  a  little.  I  'm  going  to 
try  him  again,  but  I  don't  know  how  he  wears. 
What  I  mean  is  that  you  have  probably  lost  his 
freshness.  I  have  an  idea  he  has  become  con- 
ventional, or  at  any  rate  serious." 

"  Bless  me,  do  you  call  that  serious  ?  " 

"  He  used  to  be  so  gay.  He  had  a  real  genius 
for  suggestive— f>aradox.  He  was  a  wonderful 
talker." 

"  It  seems  to  me  he  does  very  well  now,"  said 
Peter  Sherringham. 

"  Oh,  this  is  nothing.  He  had  great  flights  of 
old,  very  great  flights  ;  one  saw  him  rise  and  rise, 
and  turn  somersaults  in  the  blue,  and  wondered 
how  far  he  could  go.  He 's  very  intelligent,  and 
I  should  think  it  might  be  interesting  to  find  out 
what  it  is  that  prevents  the  whole  man  from  being 
as  good  as  his  parts.  I  mean  in  case  he  is  n't  so 
good." 

"  I  see  you  more  than  suspect  that.  May  it 
not  simply  be  that  he 's  an  ass  ? " 

"  That  would  be  the  whole  —  I  shall  see  in  time 
—  but  it  certainly  is  n't  one  of  the  parts.  It  may 
be  the  effect,  but  it  is  n't  the  cause,  and  it 's  for 
the  cause  that  I  claim  an  interest.  I  imagine  you 


86  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

think  he 's  an  ass  on  account  of  what  he  said  about 
the  theatre,  his  pronouncing  it  a  coarse  art." 

"  To  differ  about  him  that  reason  will  do,"  said 
Sherringham.  "  The  only  bad  one  would  be  one 
that  should  n't  preserve  our  difference.  You 
need  n't  tell  me  you  agree  with  him,  for,  frankly, 
I  don't  care." 

"  Then  your  passion  still  burns  ? "  Nick  Dor- 
mer asked. 

"  My  passion  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mean  for  any  individual  exponent  of 
the  contestable  art :  mark  the  guilty  conscience, 
mark  the  rising  blush,  mark  the  confusion  of 
mind !  I  mean  the  old  sign  one  knew  you  best 
by :  your  permanent  stall  at  the  Frangais,  your 
inveterate  attendance  at  premieres,  the  way  you 
'follow'  the  young  talents  and  the  old." 

"  Yes,  it 's  still  my  little  hobby  ;  my  little  folly, 
if  you  like.  I  don't  see  that  I  get  tired  of  it. 
What  will  you  have  ?  Strong  predilections  are 
rather  a  blessing  ;  they  are  simplifying.  I  am 
fond  of  representation  —  the  representation  of 
life  :  I  like  it  better,  I  think,  than  the  real  thing. 
You  like  it,  too,  so  you  have  no  right  to  cast  the 
stone.  You  like  it  best  done  one  way  and  I 
another ;  and  our  preference,  on  either  side,  has 
a  deep  root  in  us.  There  is  a  fascination  to  me 
in  the  way  the  actor  does  it,  when  his  talent  (ah, 
he  must  have  that !)  has  been  highly  trained  (ah, 
it  must  be  that !).  The  things  he  can  do,  in  this 
effort  at  representation  (with  the  dramatist  to 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  87 

give  him  his  lift)  seem  to  me  innumerable  —  he 
can  carry  it  to  a  delicacy !  —  and  I  take  great 
pleasure  in  observing  them,  in  recognizing  them 
and  comparing  them.  It 's  an  amusement  like 
another :  I  don't  pretend  to  call  it  by  any  exalted 
name;  but  in  this  vale  of  friction  it  will  serve. 
One  can  lose  one's  self  in  it,  and  it  has  this  recom- 
mendation (in  common,  I  suppose,  with  the  study 
of  the  other  arts),  that  the  further  you  go  in  it 
the  more  you  find.  So  I  go  rather  far,  if  you  will. 
But  is  it  the  principal  sign  one  knows  me  by  ?  " 
Sherringham  abruptly  asked. 

"  Don't  be  ashamed  of  it,  or  it  will  be  ashamed 
of  you.  I  ought  to  discriminate.  You  are  dis- 
tinguished among  my  friends  and  relations  by 
being  a  rising  young  diplomatist ;  but  you  know 
I  always  want  the  further  distinction,  the  last 
analysis.  Therefore  I  surmise  that  you  are 
conspicuous  among  rising  young  diplomatists  for 
the  infatuation  that  you  describe  in  such  pretty 
terms." 

"  You  evidently  believe  that  it  will  prevent  me 
from  rising  very  high.  But  pastime  for  pastime, 
is  it  any  idler  than  yours  ?  " 

"  Than  mine  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  have  half  a  dozen,  while  I  only  al- 
low myself  the  luxury  of  one.  For  the  theatre  is 
my  sole  vice,  really.  Is  this  more  wanton,  say, 
than  to  devote  weeks  to  ascertaining  in  what  par- 
ticular way  your  friend  Mr.  Nash  may  be  a  twad- 
dler ?  That 's  not  my  ideal  of  choice  recreation, 


88  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

but  I  would  undertake  to  do  it  sooner.  You  're 
a  young  statesman  (who  happens  to  be  en  dis- 
ponibiliti  for  the  moment),  but  you  spend  not  a 
little  of  your  time  in  besmearing  canvas  with 
bright-colored  pigments.  The  idea  of  represen- 
tation fascinates  you,  but  in  your  case  it 's  rep- 
resentation in  oils  —  or  do  you  practice  water- 
colors,  too  ?  You  even  go  much  further  than  I, 
for  I  study  my  art  of  predilection  only  in  the 
works  of  others.  I  don't  aspire  to  leave  works 
of  my  own.  You  're  a  painter,  possibly  a  great 
one ;  but  I  'm  not  an  actor."  Nick  Dormer  de- 
clared that  he  would  certainly  become  one  —  he 
was  on  the  way  to  it ;  and  Sherringham,  without 
heeding  this  charge,  went  on :  "  Let  me  add  that, 
considering  you  are  a  painter,  your  portrait  of  the 
complicated  Nash  is  lamentably  dim." 

"  He  's  not  at  all  complicated  ;  he 's  only  too 
simple  to  give  an  account  of.  Most  people  have 
a  lot  of  attributes  and  appendages  that  dress 
them  up  and  superscribe  them,  and  what  I  like 
him  for  is  that  he  has  n't  any  at  all.  It  makes 
him  so  cool." 

"  By  Jove,  you  match  him  there !  It 's  an  at- 
tribute to  be  tolerated.  How  does  he  manage 
it?" 

"  I  have  n't  the  least  idea  —  I  don't  know  that 
he  is  tolerated.  I  don't  think  any  one  has  ever 
detected  the  process.  His  means,  his  profession, 
his  belongings,  have  never  anything  to  do  with 
the  question.  He  doesn't  shade  off  into  other 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  89 

people ;  he 's  as  neat  as  an  outline  cut  out  of 
paper  with  scissors.  I  like  him,  therefore,  be- 
cause in  intercourse  with  him  you  know  what 
you  've  got  hold  of.  With  most  men  you  don't : 
to  pick  the  flower  you  must  break  off  the  whole 
dusty,  thorny,  worldly  branch ;  you  find  you  are 
taking  up  in  your  grasp  all  sorts  of  other  people 
and  things,  dangling  accidents  and  conditions. 
Poor  Nash  has  none  of  those  ramifications  :  he  's 
the  solitary  blossom." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  would  be  better  for  a 
little  of  the  same  pruning!"  Sherringham  ex- 
claimed ;  and  the  young  men  continued  their 
walk  and  their  gossip,  jerking  each  other  this 
way  and  that  with  a  sociable  roughness  conse- 
quent on  their  having  been  boys  together.  Inti- 
macy had  reigned,  of  old,  between  the  little 
Sherringhams  and  the  little  Dormers,  united  by 
country  contiguity  and  by  the  circumstance  that 
there  was  first  cousinship,  not  neglected,  among 
the  parents,  Lady  Agnes  standing  in  this  convert- 
ible relation  to  Lady  Windrush,  the  mother  of 
Peter  and  Julia,  as  well  as  of  other  daughters  and 
of  a  maturer  youth  who  was  to  inherit,  and  who 
since  then  had  inherited,  the  ancient  barony. 
Since  then  many  things  had  altered,  but  not  the 
deep  foundation  of  sociability.  One  of  our  young 
men  had  gone  to  Eton  and  the  other  to  Harrow 
(the  scattered  school  on  the  hill  was  the  tradition 
of  the  Dormers),  and  the  divergence  had  taken 
its  course  later,  in  university  years.  Bricket, 


QO  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

however,  had  remained  accessible  to  Windrush, 
and  Windrush  to  Bricket,  to  which  Percival  Dor- 
mer had  now  succeeded,  terminating  the  inter- 
change a  trifle  rudely  by  letting  out  that  pleasant 
white  house  in  the  midlands  (its  expropriated  in- 
habitants, Lady  Agnes  and  her  daughters,  adored 
it)  to  an  American  reputed  rich,  who,  in  the  first 
flush  of  international  comparison,  considered  that 
for  twelve  hundred  a  year  he  got  it  at  a  bargain. 
Bricket  had  come  to  the  late  Sir  Nicholas  from 
his  elder  brother,  who  died  wifeless  and  childless. 
The  new  baronet,  so  different  from  his  father 
(though  he  recalled  at  some  points  the  uncle  after 
whom  he  had  been  named)  that  Nick  had  to 
make  it  up  by  aspirations  of  resemblance,  roamed 
about  the  world,  taking  shots  which  excited  the 
enthusiasm  of  society,  when  society  heard  of 
them,  at  the  few  legitimate  creatures  of  the  chase 
which  the  British  rifle  had  spared.  Lady  Agnes, 
meanwhile,  settled  with  her  girls  in  a  gabled,  lat- 
ticed house  in  a  creditable  quarter,  though  it  was 
still  a  little  raw,  of  the  temperate  zone  of  London. 
It  was  not  into  her  lap,  poor  woman,  that  the 
revenues  of  Bricket  were  poured.  There  was  no 
dower-house  attached  to  that  moderate  property, 
and  the  allowance  with  which  the  estate  was 
charged  on  her  ladyship's  behalf  was  not  an  in- 
citement to  grandeur. 

Nick  had  a  room  under  his  mother's  roof,  which 
he  mainly  used  to  dress  for  dinner  when  he  dined 
in  Calcutta  Gardens,  and  he  had  "  kept  on  "  his 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  gi 

chambers  in  the  Temple  ;  for  to  a  young  man  in 
public  life  an  independent  address  was  indispen- 
sable. Moreover,  he  was  suspected  of  having  a 
studio  in  an  out-of-the-way  quarter  of  the  town, 
the  indistinguishable  parts  of  South  Kensington, 
incongruous  as  such  a  retreat  might  seem  in  the 
case  of  a  member  of  Parliament.  It  was  an  ab- 
surd place  to  see  his  constituents,  unless  he  wanted 
to  paint  their  portraits,  a  kind  of  representation 
with  which  they  scarcely  would  have  been  satis- 
fied ;  and  in  fact  the  only  question  of  portraiture 
had  been  when  the  wives  and  daughters  of  sev- 
eral of  them  expressed  a  wish  for  the  picture  of 
their  handsome  young  member.  Nick  had  not 
offered  to  paint  it  himself,  and  the  studio  was 
taken  for  granted  rather  than  much  looked  into 
by  the  ladies  in  Calcutta  Gardens.  Too  express 
a  disposition  to  regard  whims  of  this  sort  as  a 
pure  extravagance  was  known  by  them  to  be 
open  to  correction;  for  they  were  not  oblivious 
that  Mr.  Carteret  had  humors  which  weighed 
against  them,  in  the  shape  of  convenient  cheques 
nestling  between  the  inside  pages  of  legible  let- 
ters of  advice.  Mr.  Carteret  was  Nick's  provi- 
dence, as  Nick  was  looked  to,  in  a  general  way, 
to  be  that  of  his  mother  and  sisters,  especially 
since  it  had  become  so  plain  that  Percy,  who  was 
ungracefully  selfish,  would  operate,  mainly  with 
a  "six-bore,"  quite  out  of  that  sphere.  It  was 
not  for  studios,  certainly,  that  Mr.  Carteret  sent 
cheques  ;  but  they  were  an  expression  of  general 


92  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

confidence  in  Nick,  and  a  little  expansion  was 
natural  to  a  young  man  enjoying  such  a  luxury 
as  that.  It  was  sufficiently  felt,  in  Calcutta  Gar- 
dens, that  Nick  could  be  looked  to  not  to  betray 
such  a  confidence  ;  for  Mr.  Carteret's  behavior 
could  have  no  name  at  all  unless  one  were  pre- 
pared to  call  it  encouraging.  He  had  never 
promised  anything,  but  he  was  one  of  the  de- 
lightful persons  with  whom  the  redemption  pre- 
cedes or  dispenses  with  the  vow.  He  had  been 
an  early  and  lifelong  friend  of  the  late  right 
honorable  gentleman,  a  political  follower,  a  de- 
voted admirer,  a  stanch  supporter  in  difficult 
hours.  He  had  never  married,  espousing  nothing 
more  reproductive  than  Sir  Nicholas's  views  (he 
used  to  write  letters  to  the  Times  in  favor  of 
them),  and  had,  so  far  as  was  known,  neither 
chick  nor  child ;  nothing  but  an  amiable  little 
family  of  eccentricities,  the  flower  of  which  was 
his  odd  taste  for  living  in  a  small,  steep,  clean, 
country  town,  all  green  gardens  and  red  walls, 
with  a  girdle  of  hedgerows,  clustering  about  an 
immense  brown  old  abbey.  When  Lady  Agnes's 
imagination  rested  upon  the  future  of  her  second 
son,  she  liked  to  remember  that  Mr.  Carteret  had 
nothing  to  "  keep  up  :  "  the  inference  seemed  so 
direct  that  he  would  keep  up  Nick. 

The  most  important  event  in  the  life  of  this 
young  man  had  been  incomparably  his  victory, 
under  his  father's  eyes,  more  than  two  years 
before,  in  the  sharp  contest  for  Crockhurst  —  a 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  93 

victory  which  his  consecrated  name,  his  extreme 
youth,  his  ardor  in  the  fray,  the  general  personal 
sympathy  of  the  party  and  the  attention  excited 
by  the  fresh  cleverness  of  his  speeches,  tinted 
with  young  idealism  and  yet  sticking  sufficiently 
to  the  question  (the  -burning  jg^iestion,  jt^Jias 
since  burnedLfl-UtX-had  rendered  almost  brilliant. 
There  had  been  leaders  in  the  newspapers  about 
it,  half  in  compliment  to  her  husband,  who  was 
known  to  be  failing  so  prematurely  (he  was  al- 
most as  young  to  die,  and  to  die  famous  — 
Lady  Agnes  regarded  it  as  famous  —  as  his  son 
had  been  to  stand),  which  the  boy's  mother  re- 
ligiously preserved,  cut  out  and  tied  together 
with  a  ribbon,  in  the  innermost  drawer  of  a  fa- 
vorite cabinet.  But  it  had  been  a  barren,  or 
almost  a  barren  triumph,  for  in  the  order  of  im- 
portance in  Nick's  history  another  incident  had 
run  it,  as  the  phrase  is,  very  close :  nothing  less 
than  the  quick  dissolution  of  the  Parliament  in 
which  he  was  so  manifestly  destined  to  give 
symptoms  of  a  future.  He  had  not  recovered 
his  seat  at  the  general  election,  for  the  second 
contest  was  even  sharper  than  the  first,  and  the 
Tories  had  put  forward  a  loud,  vulgar,  rattling, 
almost  bullying  man.  It  was  to  a  certain  extent 
a  comfort  that  poor  Sir  Nicholas,  who  had  been 
witness  of  the  bright  hour,  passed  away  before 
the  darkness.  He  died,  with  all  his  hopes  on  his 
second  son's  head,  unconscious  of  near  disaster, 
handing  on  the  torch  and  the  tradition,  after 


94  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

a  long,  supreme  interview  with  Nick,  at  which 
Lady  Agnes  had  not  been  present,  but  which  she 
knew  to  have  been  a  sort  of  paternal  dedication, 
a  solemn  communication  of  ideas  on  the  highest 
national  questions  (she  had  reason  to  believe  he 
had  touched  on  those  of  external  as  well  as  of 
domestic  and  of  colonial  policy),  leaving  on  the 
boy's  nature  and  manner  from  that  moment  the 
most  unmistakable  traces.  If  his  tendency  to  rev- 
erie increased,  it  was  because  he  had  so  much  to 
think  over  in  what  his  pale  father  had  said  to  him 
in  the  hushed,  dim  chamber,  laying  upon  him  the 
great  mission  of  carrying  out  the  unachieved  and 
reviving  a  silent  voice.  It  was  work  cut  out  for  a 
lifetime,  and  that  "  coordinating  power  in  relation 
to  detail,"  which  was  one  of  the  great  characteris- 
tics of  Sir  Nicholas's  high  distinction  (the  most 
analytic  of  the  weekly  papers  was  always  talking 
about  it),  had  enabled  him  to  rescue  the  prospect 
from  any  shade  of  vagueness  or  of  ambiguity. 

Five  years  before  Nick  Dormer  went  up  to  be 
questioned  by  the  electors  of  Crockhurst,  Peter 
Sherringham  appeared  before  a  board  of  exami- 
ners who  let  him  off  much  less  easily,  though  there 
were  also  some  flattering  prejudices  in  his  favor; 
such  influences  being  a  part  of  the  copious,  light, 
unembarrassing  baggage  with  which  each  of  the 
young  men  began  life.  Peter  passed,  however, 
passed  high,  and  had  his  reward  in  prompt  assign- 
ment to  small  subordinate  diplomatic  duties  in 
Germany.  Since  then  he  had  had  his  profes- 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  95 

sional  adventures,  which  need  not  arrest  us, 
inasmuch  as  they  had  all  paled  in  the  light  of  his 
appointment,  nearly  three  years  previous  to  the 
moment  of  our  making  his  acquaintance,  to  a 
secretaryship  of  embassy  in  Paris.  He  had  done 
well  and  had  gone  fast,  and  for  the  present  he 
was  willing  enough  to  rest.  It  pleased  him  bet- 
ter to  remain  in  Paris  as  a  subordinate  than  to 
go  to  Honduras  as  a  principal,  and  Nick  Dormer 
had  not  put  a  false  colour  on  the  matter  in  speak- 
ing of  his  stall  at  the  Theatre  Francois  as  a 
sedative  to  his  ambition.  Nick's  inferiority  in  age 
to  his  cousin  sat  on  him  more  lightly  than  when 
they  had  been  in  their  teens  ;  and  indeed  no  one 
can  very  well  be  much  older  than  a  young  man 
who  has  figured  for  a  year,  however  impercepti- 
bly, in  the  House  of  Commons.  Separation  and 
diversity  had  made  them  strange  enough  to  each 
other  to  give  a  taste  to  what  they  shared ;  they 
were  friends  without  being  particular  friends  ; 
that  further  degree  could  always  hang  before 
them  as  a  suitable  but  not  oppressive  contin- 
gency, and  they  were  both  conscious  that  it  was 
in  their  interest  to  keep  certain  differences  to 
"  chaff  "  each  other  about  —  so  possible  was  it 
that  they  might  have  quarreled  if  they  had  only 
agreed.  Peter,  as  being  wide-minded,  was  a  little 
irritated  to  find  his  cousin  always  so  intensely 
British,  while  Nick  Dormer  made  him  the  object 
of  the  same  compassionate  criticism,  recognized 
that  he  had  a  rare  knack  with  foreign  tongues, 


96  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

but  reflected,  and  even  with  extravagance  de- 
clared, that  it  was  a  pity  to  have  gone  so  far  from 
home  only  to  remain  so  homely.  Moreover, 
Nick  had  his  ideas  about  the  diplomatic  mind  ;  it 
was  the  moral  type  of  which,  on  the  whole,  he 
thought  least  favorably.  Dry,  narrow,  barren, 
poor,  he  pronounced  it  in  familiar  conversation 
with  the  clever  secretary ;  wanting  in  imagina- 
tion, in  generosity,  in  the  finest  perceptions  and 
the  highest  courage.  This  served  as  well  as  any- 
thing else  to  keep  the  peace  between  them  ;  it 
was  a  necessity  of  their  friendly  intercourse  that 
they  should  scuffle  a  little,  and  it  scarcely  mat- 
tered what  they  scuffled  about.  Nick  Dormer's 
express  enjoyment  of  Paris,  the  shop-windows  on 
the  quays,  the  old  books  on  the  parapet,  the 
gayety  of  the  river,  the  grandeur  of  the  Louvre, 
all  the  amusing  tints  and  tones,  struck  his  com- 
panion as  a  sign  of  insularity  ;  the  appreciation 
of  such  things  having  become  with  Sherringham 
an  unconscious  habit,  a  contented  assimilation. 
If  poor  Nick,  for  the  hour,  was  demonstrative 
and  lyrical,  it  was  because  he  had  no  other  way 
of  sounding  the  note  of  farewell  to  the  indepen- 
dent life  of  which  the  term  seemed  now  definitely 
in  sight ;  the  sense  pressed  upon  him  that  these 
were  the  last  moments  of  his  freedom.  He  would 
waste  time  till  half  past  seven,  because  half  past 
seven  meant  dinner,  and  dinner  meant  his  mother, 
solemnly  attended  by  the  strenuous  shade  of  his 
father  and  reinforced  by  Julia. 


VI 

WHEN  Nick  arrived  with  the  three  members  of 
his  family,  Peter  Sherringham  was  seated  in  the 
restaurant  at  which  the  tryst  had  been  taken  at  a 
small  but  immaculate  table ;  but  Mrs.  Dallow  was 
not  yet  on  the  scene,  and  they  had  time  for  a  so- 
ciable settlement  — time  to  take  their  places  and 
unfold  their  napkins,  crunch  their  rolls,  breathe 
the  savory  air  and  watch  the  door,  before  the 
usual  raising  of  heads  and  suspension  of  forks, 
the  sort  of  stir  that  accompanied  most  of  this 
lady's  movements,  announced  her  entrance.  The 
dame  de  comptoir  ducked  and  re-ducked,  the  peo- 
ple looked  round,  Peter  and  Nick  got  up,  there 
was  a  shuffling  of  chairs  and  Julia  was  there. 
Peter  had  related  how  he  had  stopped  at  her 
hotel  to  bring  her  with  him  and  had  found  her, 
according  to  her  custom,  by  no  means  ready ;  on 
which,  fearing  that  his  guests  would  come  first  to 
the  rendezvous  and  find  no  proper  welcome,  he 
had  come  off  without  her,  leaving  her  to  follow. 
He  had  not  brought  a  friend,  as  he  intended,  hav- 
ing divined  that  Julia  would  prefer  a  pure  family 
party,  if  she  wanted  to  talk  about  her  candi- 
date. Now  she  stood  there,  looking  down  at  the 
table  and  her  expectant  kinsfolk,  drawing  off  her 


98  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

gloves,  letting  her  brother  draw  off  her  jacket, 
lifting  her  hands  for  some  rearrangement  of  her 
bonnet.  She  looked  at  Nick  last,  smiling,  but 
only  for  a  moment.  She  said  to  Peter,  "  Are  we 
going  to  dine  here  ?  Oh  dear,  why  did  n't  you 
have  a  private  room  ?  " 

Nick  had  not  seen  her  at  all  for  several  weeks, 
and  had  seen  her  but  little  for  a  year,  but  her  off- 
hand, cursory  manner  had  not  altered  in  the  in- 
terval. She  spoke  remarkably  fast,  as  if  speech 
were  not  in  itself  a  pleasure  —  to  have  it  over  as 
soon  as  possible  ;  and  her  bmsquerie  was  of  the 
kind  that  friendly  critics  account  for  by  pleading 
shyness.  Shyness  had  never  appeared  to  him  an 
ultimate  quality  or  a  real  explanation  of  anything  ; 
it  only  explained  an  effect  by  another  effect,  giv- 
ing a  bad  fault  another  name.  What  he  sus- 
pected in  Julia  was  that  her  mind  was  less  grace- 
ful than  her  person  ;  an  ugly,  a  really  damnatory 
idea,  which  as  yet  he  had  only  half  accepted.  It 
was  a  case  in  which  she  was  entitled  to  the  ben- 
efit of  every  doubt  and  ought  not  to  be  judged 
without  a  complete  trial.  Dormer,  meanwhile, 
was  afraid  of  the  trial  (this  was  partly  why,  of 
late,  he  had  been  to  see  her  so  little),  because  he 
was  afraid  of  the  sentence,  afraid  of  anything 
happening  which  should  lessen  the  pleasure  it 
was  actually  in  the  power  of  her  beauty  to  give. 
There  were  people  who  thought  her  rude,  and  he 
hated  rude  women.  If  he  should  fasten  on  that 
view,  or  rather  if  that  view  should  fasten  on  him, 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  99 

what  could  still  please  and  what  he  admired  in 
her  would  lose  too  much  of  its  sweetness.  If  it 
be  thought  odd  that  he  had  not  yet  been  able  to 
read  the  character  of  a  woman  he  had  known 
since  childhood,  the  answer  is  that  that  character 
had  grown  faster  than  Nick  Dormer's  observa- 
tion. The  growth  was  constant,  whereas  the  ob- 
servation was  but  occasional,  though  it  had  begun 
early.  If  he  had  attempted  to  phrase  the  matter 
to  himself,  as  he  probably  had  not,  he  might  have 
said  that  the  effect  she  produced  upon  him  was 
too  much  a  compulsion ;  not  the  coercion  of  de- 
sign, of  importunity,  nor  the  vulgar  pressure  of 
family  expectation,  a  suspected  desire  that  he 
should  like  her  enough  to  marry  her,  but  some- 
thing that  was  a  mixture  of  diverse  things,  of  the 
sense  that  she  was  imperious  and  generous  — 
but  probably  more  the  former  than  the  latter  — 
and  of  a  certain  prevision  of  doom,  the  influence 
of  the  idea  that  he  should  come  to  it,  that  he  was 
predestined. 

This  had  made  him  shrink  from  knowing  the 
worst  about  her ;  the  desire,  not  to  get  used  to  it 
in  time,  but  what  was  more  characteristic  of  him, 
to  interpose  a  temporary  illusion.  Illusions  and 
realities  and  hopes  and  fears,  however,  fell  into 
confusion  whenever  he  met  her  after  a  separation. 
The  separation,  so  far  as  seeing  her  alone  or  as 
continuous  talk  was  concerned,  had  now  been  tol- 
erably long  ;  had  lasted  really  ever  since  his  fail- 
ure to  regain  his  seat.  An  impression  had  come 


IOO  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

to  him  that  she  judged  that  failure  rather  harshly, 
had  thought  he  ought  to  have  done  better.  This 
was  a  part  of  her  imperious  strain,  and  a  part  to 
which  it  was  not  easy  to  accommodate  one's  self 
on  a  present  basis.  If  he  were  to  marry  her  he 
should  come  to  an  understanding  with  her :  he 
should  give  her  his  own  measure  as  well  as  take 
hers.  But  the  understanding,  in  the  actual  case, 
might  suggest  too  much  that  he  was  to  marry 
her.  You  could  quarrel  with  your  wife,  because 
there  were  compensations  —  for  her;  but  you 
might  not  be  prepared  to  offer  these  compensa- 
tions as  prepayment  for  the  luxury  of  quarreling. 
It  was  not  that  such  a  luxury  would  not  be 
considerable,  Nick  Dormer  thought,  as  Julia  Dai- 
low's  fine  head  poised  itself  before  him  again  ;  a 
high  spirit  was  a  better  thing  than  a  poor  one  to 
be  mismated  with,  any  day  in  the  year.  She  had 
much  the  same  coloring  as  her  brother,  but  as 
nothing  else  in  her  face  was  the  same,  the  re- 
semblance was  not  striking.  Her  hair  was  of  so 
dark  a  brown  that  it  was  commonly  regarded  as 
black,  and  so  abundant  that  a  plain  arrangement 
was  required  to  keep  it  in  discreet  relation  to  the 
rest  of  her  person.  Her  eyes  were  of  a  gray  tint 
that  was  sometimes  pronounced  too  light;  and 
they  were  not  sunken  in  her  face,  but  placed  well 
on  the  surface.  Her  nose  was  perfect,  but  her 
mouth  was  too  small ;  and  Nick  Dormer,  and 
doubtless  other  persons  as  well,  had  sometimes 
wondered  how,  with  such  a  mouth,  her  face  could 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  IOI 

have  expressed  decision.  Her  figure  helped  it, 
for  she  looked  tall  (being  extremely  slender), 
though  she  was  not;  and  her  head  took  turns 
and  positions  which,  though  they  were  a  matter 
of  but  half  an  inch  out  of  the  common,  this  way 
or  that,  somehow  contributed  to  the  air  of  reso- 
lution and  temper.  If  it  had  not  been  for  her 
extreme  delicacy  of  line  and  surface,  she  might 
have  been  called  bold  ;  but  as  it  was  she  looked 
refined  and  quiet  —  refined  by  tradition,  and  quiet 
for  a  purpose.  And  altogether  she  was  beautiful, 
with  the  pure  style  of  her  capable  head,  her  hair 
like  darkness,  her  eyes  like  early  twilight,  her 
mouth  like  a  rare  pink  flower. 

Peter  said  that  he  had  not  taken  a  private 
room  because  he  knew  Biddy's  tastes ;  she  liked 
to  see  the  world  (she  had  told  him  so),  the  curious 
people,  the  coming  and  going  of  Paris.  "  Oh, 
anything  for  Biddy !  "  Julia  replied,  smiling  at 
the  girl  and  taking  her  place.  Lady  Agnes  and 
her  elder  daughter  exchanged  one  of  their  looks, 
and  Nick  exclaimed  jocosely  that  he  did  n't  see 
why  the  whole  party  should  be  sacrificed  to  a 
presumptuous  child.  The  presumptuous  child 
blushingly  protested  she  had  never  expressed 
any  such  wish  to  Peter,  upon  which  Nick,  with 
broader  humor,  revealed  that  Peter  had  served 
them  so  out  of  stinginess  :  he  had  pitchforked 
them  together  in  the  public  room  because  he 
would  n't  go  to  the  expense  of  a  cabinet.  He  had 
brought  no  guest,  no  foreigner  of  distinction  nor 


102  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

diplomatic  swell,  to  honor  them,  and  now  they 
would  see  what  a  paltry  dinner  he  would  give 
them.  Peter  stabbed  him  indignantly  with  a 
long  roll,  and  Lady  Agnes,  who  seemed  to  be 
waiting  for  some  manifestation  on  Mrs.  Dallow's 
part  which  did  n't  come,  concluded,  with  a  cer- 
tain coldness,  that  they  quite  sufficed  to  them- 
selves for  privacy  as  well  as  for  society.  Nick 
called  attention  to  this  fine  phrase  of  his  mother's, 
said  it  was  awfully  neat,  while  Grace  and  Biddy 
looked  harmoniously  at  Julia's  clothes.  Nick  felt 
nervous,  and  joked  a  good  deal  to  carry  it  off  — 
a  levity  that  did  n't  prevent  Julia's  saying  to  him, 
after  a  moment,  "  You  might  have  come  to  see 
me  to-day,  you  know.  Did  n't  you  get  my  mes- 
sage from  Peter?  " 

"  Scold  him,  Julia —  scold  him  well.  I  begged 
him  to  go,"  said  Lady  Agnes  ;  and  to  this  Grace 
added  her  voice  with  an  "  Oh,  Julia,  do  give  it 
to  him ! "  These  words,  however,  had  not  the 
effect  they  suggested,  for  Mrs.  Dallow  only  mur- 
mured, with  an  ejaculation,  in  her  quick,  curt 
way,  that  that  would  be  making  far  too  much  of 
him.  It  was  one  of  the  things  in  her  which  Nick 
Dormer  mentally  pronounced  ungraceful,  that  a 
perversjty  of  pride  or  shyness  always  made  her 
disappoint  you  a  little,  if  she  saw  you  expected  a 
thing.  She  was  certain  to  snub  effusiveness. 
This  vice,  however,  was  the  last  thing  of  which 
Lady  Agnes  would  have  consented  to  being  ac- 
cused ;  and  Nick,  while  he  replied  to  Julia  that 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  1 03 

he  was  certain  he  should  n't  have  found  her,  was 
not  unable  to  perceive  the  operation,  on  his 
mother,  of  that  shade  of  manner.  "  He  ought  to 
have  gone ;  he  owed  you  that,"  she  went  on  ; 
"  but  it  's  very  true  he  would  have  had  the  same 
luck  as  we.  I  went  with  the  girls  directly  after 
luncheon.  I  suppose  you  got  our  card." 

"  He  might  have  come  after  I  came  in,"  said 
Mrs.  Dallow. 

"  Dear  Julia,  I  'm  going  to  see  you  to-night. 
I  've  been  waiting  for  that,"  Nick  rejoined. 

"  Of  course  we  had  no  idea  when  you  would 
come  in,"  said  Lady  Agnes. 

"  I  'm  so  sorry.  You  must  come  to-morrow. 
I  hate  calls  at  night,"  Julia  remarked. 

"  Well,  then,  will  you  roam  with  me  ?  Will 
you  wander  through  Paris  on  my  arm  ? "  Nick 
asked,  smiling.  "Will  you  take  a  drive  with 
me  ? " 

"  Oh,  that  would  be  perfection  !  "  cried  Grace. 

"  I  thought  we  were  all  going  somewhere  —  to 
the  Hippodrome,  Peter,"  said  Biddy. 

"  Oh,  not  all  ;  just  you  and  me ! "  laughed 
Peter. 

"  I  am  going  home  to  my  bed.  I  've  earned 
my  rest,"  Lady  Agnes  sighed. 

"  Can't  Peter  take  us  ?  "  asked  Grace.  "  Nick 
can  take  you  home,  mamma,  if  Julia  won't  receive 
him,  and  I  can  look  perfectly  after  Peter  and 
Biddy." 

"  Take  them   to  something  amusing ;  please 


IO4  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

take  them,"  Mrs.  Dallow  said  to  her  brother. 
Her  voice  was  kind,  but  had  the  expectation  of 
assent  in  it,  and  Nick  observed  both  the  indul- 
gence and  the  pressure.  "  You  're  tired,  poor 
dear,"  she  continued  to  Lady  Agnes.  "  Fancy 
your  being  dragged  about  so !  What  did  you 
come  over  for  ?  " 

"  My  mother  came  because  I  brought  her," 
Nick  said.  "  It 's  I  who  have  dragged  her  about. 
I  brought  her  for  a  little  change.  I  thought 
it  would  do  her  good.  I  wanted  to  see  the 
Salon." 

"  It  is  n't  a  bad  time.  I  have  a  carriage,  and 
you  must  use  it ;  you  must  use  nothing  else.  It 
shall  take  you  everywhere.  I  will  drive  you 
about  to-morrow."  Julia  dropped  these  words  in 
the  same  perfunctory  casual  way  as  any  others  ; 
but  Nick  had  already  noted,  and  he  noted  now 
afresh,  with  pleasure,  that  her  abruptness  was 
perfectly  capable  of  conveying  a  benevolence.  It 
was  quite  sufficiently  manifest  to  him  that  for  the 
rest  of  the  time  she  might  be  near  his  mother 
she  would  do  her  numberless  good  turns.  She 
would  give  things  to  the  girls  —  he  had  a  private 
adumbration  of  that ;  expensive  Parisian,  perhaps 
not  perfectly  useful  things. 

Lady  Agnes  was  a  woman  who  measured  reci- 
procities and  distances ;  but  she  was  both  too 
subtle  and  too  just  not  to  recognize  the  smallest 
manifestation  that  might  count,  either  technically 
or  essentially,  as  a  service.  "  Dear  Julia  ! "  she 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  IO$ 

exclaimed,  responsively  ;  and  her  tone  made  this 
brevity  of  acknowledgment  sufficient.  What  Julia 
had  said  was  all  she  wanted.  "  It 's  so  interesting 
about  Harsh,"  she  added.  "  We  're  immensely 
excited." 

"  Yes,  Nick  looks  it.  Merci,  pas  de  vin.  It 's 
just  the  thing  for  you,  you  know." 

"  To  be  sure  he  knows  it.  He 's  immensely 
grateful.  It 's  really  very  kind  of  you." 

"  You  do  me  a  very  great  honor,  Julia,"  said 
Nick. 

"  Don't  be  tiresome  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dallow. 

"We'll  talk  about  it  later.  Of  course  there 
are  lots  of  points,"  Nick  pursued.  "  At  present 
let  us  be  purely  convivial.  Somehow  Harsh  is 
such  a  false  note  here.  A  tout  a  1'heure  !  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  've  caught  exactly  the 
tone  of  Mr.  Gabriel  Nash,"  Peter  Sherringham 
observed. 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Gabriel  Nash  ? "  Mrs.  Dallow 
asked. 

"  Nick,  is  he  a  gentleman  ?  Biddy  says  so," 
Grace  Dormer  interposed  before  this  inquiry  was 
answered. 

"  It  is  to  be  supposed  that  any  one  Nick  brings 
to  lunch  with  us  "  —  Lady  Agnes  murmured. 

"Ah,  Grace,  with  your  tremendous  standard !  " 
her  brother  said  ;  while  Peter  Sherringham  re- 
plied to  Julia  that  Mr.  Nash  was  Nick's  new  Men- 
tor or  oracle  ;  whom,  moreover,  she  should  see,  if 
she  would  come  and  have  tea  with  him. 


IO6  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  I  haven't  the  least  desire  to  see  him,"  Julia 
declared,  "  any  more  than  I  have  to  talk  about 
Harsh  and  bore  poor  Peter." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  dear,  you  would  bore  me,"  said 
Sherringham. 

"  One  thing  at  a  time,  then.  Let  us  by  all 
means  be  convivial.  Only  you  must  show  me 
how,"  Mrs.  Dallow  went  on  to  Nick.  "  What 
does  he  mean,  cousin  Agnes  ?  Does  he  want  us 
to  drain  the  wine-cup,  to  flash  with  repartee  ?  " 

"  You  '11  do  very  well,"  said  Nick.  "  You  are 
charming,  this  evening." 

"  Do  go  to  Peter's,  Julia,  if  you  want  something 
exciting.  You'll  see  a  marvelous  girl,"  Biddy 
broke  in,  with  her  smile  on  Peter. 

"  Marvelous  for  what  ?  " 

"  For  thinking  she  can  act,  when  she  can't," 
said  the  roguish  Biddy. 

"  Dear  me,  what  people  you  all  know  !  I  hate 
Peter's  theatrical  people." 

"  And  are  n't  you  going  home,  Julia  ?  "  Lady 
Agnes  inquired. 

"  Home  to  the  hotel  ?  " 

"Dear,  no,  to  Harsh,  to  see  about  every- 
thing." 

"  I  'm  in  the  midst  of  telegrams.  I  don't  know 
yet." 

"  I  suppose  there 's  no  doubt  they  '11  have 
him,"  Lady  Agnes  decided  to  pursue. 

"Who  will  have  whom  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  local  people  and  the  party ;  those 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  IO/ 

who  invite  a  gentleman  to  stand.  I  'm  speaking 
of  my  son." 

"  They  '11  have  the  person  I  want  them  to  have, 
I  dare  say.  There  are  so  many  people  in  it,  in 
one  way  or  another,  it 's  dreadful.  I  like  the 
way  you  sit  there,"  Mrs.  Dallow  added  to  Nick 
Dormer. 

"  So  do  I,"  he  smiled  back  at  her ;  and  he 
thought  she  was  charming  now,  because  she  was 
gay  and  easy  and  willing  really,  though  she  might 
plead  incompetence,  to  understand  how  jocose  a 
dinner  in  a  pothouse  in  a  foreign  town  might  be. 
She  was  in  good-humor,  or  she  was  going  to  be, 
and  not  grand,  nor  stiff,  nor  indifferent,  nor 
haughty,  nor  any  of  the  things  that  people  who 
disliked  her  usually  found  her  and  sometimes 
even  a  little  made  him  believe  her.  The  spirit 
of  mirth,  in  some  cold  natures,  manifests  itself 
not  altogether  happily  ;  their  effort  of  recreation 
resembles  too  much  the  bath  of  the  hippopota- 
mus; but  when  Mrs.  Dallow  put  her  elbows  on 
the  table,  one  felt  she  could  be  trusted  to  get 
them  safely  off  again. 

For  a  family  in  mourning  the  dinner  was  lively ; 
the  more  so  that  before  it  was  half  over  Julia  had 
arranged  that  her  brother,  eschewing  the  inferior 
spectacle,  should  take  the  girls  to  the  Theatre 
Fran^ais.  It  was  her  idea,  and  Nick  had  a 
chance  to  observe  how  an  idea  was  apt  to  be  not 
successfully  controverted  when  it  was  Julia's. 
Even  the  programme  appeared  to  have  been  pre- 


IO8  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

arranged  to  suit  it,  just  the  thing  for  the  cheek 
of  the  young  person  — "  II  ne  Faut  Jurer  de 
Rien  "  and  "  Mademoiselle  de  la  Seigliere." 
Peter  was  all  willingness,  but  it  was  Julia  who 
settled  it,  even  to  sending  for  the  newspaper  (her 
brother,  by  a  rare  accident,  was  unconscious  of 
the  evening's  bill),  and  to  reassuring  Biddy,  who 
was  happy  but  anxious,  on  the  article  of  their  not 
getting  places,  their  being  too  late.  Peter  could 
always  get  places  :  a  word  from  him,  and  the  best 
box  was  at  his  disposal.  She  made  him  write  the 
word  on  a  card  and  saw  that  a  messenger  was 
dispatched  with  it  to  the  Rue  de  Richelieu ;  and 
all  this  was  done  without  loudness  or  insistence, 
parenthetically  and  authoritatively.  The  box  was 
bespoken  ;  the  carriage,  as  soon  as  they  had  had 
their  coffee,  was  found  to  be  there ;  Peter  drove 
off  in  it  with  the  girls,  with  the  understanding 
that  he  was  to  send  it  back ;  Nick  sat  waiting  for 
it,  over  the  finished  repast,  with  the  two  ladies, 
and  then  his  mother  was  relegated  to  it  and  con- 
veyed to  her  apartments  ;  and  all  the  while  it 
was  Julia  who  governed  the  succession  of  events. 
"  Do  be  nice  to  her,"  Lady  Agnes  murmured  to 
him,  as  he  placed  her  in  the  vehicle  at  the  door 
of  the  restaurant ;  and  he  guessed  that  it  gave 
her  a  comfort  to  have  left  him  sitting  there  with 
Mrs.  Dallow. 

Nick  had  every  disposition  to  be  nice  to  her ; 
if  things  went  as  she  liked  them,  it  was  an 
acknowledgment  of  a  certain  force  that  was  in 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  IOQ 

her  —  the  force  of  assuming  that  they  would. 
Julia  had  her  differences  —  some  of  them  were 
much  for  the  better ;  and  when  she  was  in  a  mood 
like  this  evening's,  liberally  dominant,  he  was 
ready  to  encourage  her  assumptions.  While  they 
waited  for  the  return  of  the  carriage,  which  had 
rolled  away  with  his  mother,  she  sat  opposite  to 
him,  with  her  elbows  on  the  table,  playing  first 
with  one  and  then  with  another  of  the  objects 
that  encumbered  it ;  after  five  minutes  of  which 
she  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  I  say,  we  '11  go  ! "  and  got 
up  abruptly,  asking  for  her  jacket.  He  said  some- 
thing about  the  carriage  having  had  orders  to 
come  back  for  them,  and  she  replied,  "  Well,  it 
can  go  away  again  !  "  She  added,  "  I  don't  want 
a  carriage ;  I  want  to  walk ; "  and  in  a  moment 
she  was  out  of  the  place,  with  the  people  at  the 
tables  turning  round  again  and  the  caisstire  sway- 
ing in  her  high  seat.  On  the  pavement  of  the 
boulevard  she  looked  up  and  down :  there  were 
people  at  little  tables,  at  the  door ;  there  were 
people  all  over  the  broad  expanse  of  the  asphalt ; 
there  was  a  profusion  of  light  and  a  pervasion  of 
sound  ;  and  everywhere,  though  the  establishment 
at  which  they  had  been  dining  was  not  in  the 
thick  of  the  fray,  the  tokens  of  a  great  traffic  of 
pleasure,  that  night  aspect  of  Paris  which  repre- 
sents it  as  a  huge  market  for  sensations.  Beyond 
the  Boulevard  des  Capucines  it  flared  through 
the  warm  evening  like  a  vast  bazaar ;  and  oppo- 
site the  Cafe  Durand  the  Madeleine  rose  theatri- 


1 10  THE  TRAGIC  MUSE. 

cal,  a  high,  clever  cttcor,  before  the  footlights  of 
the  Rue  Royale.  "  Where  shall  we  go,  what 
shall  we  do  ?  "  Mrs.  Dallow  asked,  looking  at  her 
companion  and  somewhat  to  his  surprise,  as  he 
had  supposed  that  she  only  wanted  to  go  home. 

"  Anywhere  you  like.  It 's  so  warm  we  might 
drive,  instead  of  going  indoors.  We  might  go  to 
the  Bois.  That  would  be  agreeable." 

"  Yes,  but  it  would  n't  be  walking.  However, 
that  doesn't  matter.  It's  mild  enough  for  any- 
thing—  for  sitting  out,  like  all  these  people. 
And  I  've  never  walked  in  Paris  at  night :  it 
would  amuse  me." 

Nick  hesitated.  "  So  it  might,  but  it  is  n't  par- 
ticularly recommended  to  ladies." 

"  I  don't  care,  if  it  happens  to  suit  me." 

"  Very  well,  then,  we  '11  walk  to  the  Bastille,  if 
you  like." 

Julia  hesitated,  on  her  side,  still  looking  round 
her. 

"  It 's  too  far  ;  I  'm  tired  ;  we  '11  sit  here."  And 
she  dropped  beside  an  empty  table,  on  the  "  ter- 
race" of  M.  Durand.  "This  will  do;  it's  amus- 
ing enough,  and  we  can  look  at  the  Madeleine  ; 
that 's  respectable.  If  we  must  have  something, 
we  '11  have  a  madhe ;  is  that  respectable  ?  Not 
particularly  ?  So  much  the  better.  What  are 
those  people  having  ?  Bocks  ?  Could  n't  we 
have  bocks  ?  Are  they  very  low  ?  Then  I  shall 
have  one.  I  've  been  so  wonderfully  good  —  I  've 
been  staying  at  Versailles  :  je  me  dots  bien  cela" 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  Ill 

She  insisted,  but  pronounced  the  thin  liquid  in 
the  tall  glass  very  disgusting  when  it  was  brought. 
Nick  was  amazed,  reflecting  that  it  was  not  for 
such  a  discussion  as  this  that  his  mother  had 
left  him  with  such  complacency ;  and  indeed  he 
too  had,  as  she  would  have  had,  his  share  of 
perplexity,  observing  that  nearly  half  an  hour 
passed  without  his  cousin's  saying  anything 
about  Harsh. 

Mrs.  Dallow  leaned  back  against  the  lighted 
glass  of  the  cafiy  comfortable  and  beguiled, 
watching  the  passers,  the  opposite  shops,  the 
movement  of  the  square  in  front  of  them.  She 
talked  about  London,  about  the  news  written  to 
her  in  her  absence,  about  Cannes  and  the  people 
she  had  seen  there,  about  her  poor  sister-in-law 
and  her  numerous  progeny,  and  two  or  three  droll 
things  that  had  happened  at  Versailles.  She  dis- 
coursed considerably  about  herself,  mentioning 
certain  things  she  meant  to  do  on  her  return  to 
town,  her  plans  for  the  rest  of  the  season.  Her 
carriage  came  and  stood  there,  and  Nick  asked  if 
he  should  send  it  away  ;  to  which  she  said,  "  No, 
let  it  stand  a  bit."  She  let  it  stand  a  long  time, 
and  then  she  told  him  to  dismiss  it  :  they  would 
walk  home.  She  took  his  arm  and  they  went 
along  the  boulevard,  on  the  right  hand  side,  to 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  saying  little  to  each  other 
during  the  transit ;  and  then  they  passed  into  the 
hotel  and  up  to  her  rooms.  All  she  had  said  on 
the  way  was  that  she  was  very  tired  of  Paris. 


112  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE, 

There  was  a  shaded  lamp  in  her  salon,  but  the 
windows  were  open,  and  the  light  of  the  street, 
with  its  undisturbing  murmur,  as  if  everything 
ran  on  india-rubber,  came  up  through  the  inter- 
stices of  the  balcony  and  made  a  vague  glow  and 
a  flitting  of  shadows  on  the  ceiling.  Her  maid 
appeared,  busying  herself  a  moment ;  and  when 
she  had  gone  out  Julia  said  suddenly  to  her  com- 
panion, "  Should  you  mind  telling  me  what 's  the 
matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  The  matter  with  me  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  want  to  stand  ? " 

"  I  '11  do  anything  to  oblige  you." 

"  Why  should  you  oblige  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  is  n't  that  the  way  people  treat  you  ?  " 
asked  Nick. 

"  They  treat  me  best  when  they  are  a  little 
serious." 

"  My  dear  Julia,  it  seems  to  me  I  'm  serious 
enough.  Surely  it  is  n't  an  occasion  to  be  so 
very  solemn,  the  idea  of  going  down  into  a  stodgy 
little  country  town  and  talking  a  lot  of  rot." 

"  Why  do  you  call  it  «  rot '  ?  " 

"  Because  I  can  think  of  no  other  name  that, 
on  the  whole,  describes  it  so  well.  You  know 
the  sort  of  thing.  Come  !  you  've  listened  to 
enough  of  it,  first  and  last.  One  blushes  for  it 
when  one  sees  it  in  print,  in  the  local  papers. 
The  local  papers  —  ah,  the  thought  of  them 
makes  me  want  to  stay  in  Paris." 

"  If  you  don't  speak  well  it 's  your  own  fault ; 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  113 

you  know  how  to,  perfectly.     And  you  usually 
do." 

"  I  always  do,  and  that 's  what  I  'm  ashamed 
of.  I  speak  beautifully.  I  Ve  got  the  cursed 
humbugging  trick  of  it.  I  can  turn  it  on,  a  fine 
flood  of  it,  at  the  shortest  notice.  The  better  it 
is  the  worse  it  is,  the  kind  is  so  inferior.  It  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  truth  or  the  search  for 
it  ;  nothing  to  do  with  intelligence,  or  candor,  or 
honor.  It 's  an  appeal  to  everything  that  for 
one's  self  one  despises,"  the  young  man  went  on 
—  "  to  stupidity,  to  ignorance,  to  density,  to  the 
love  of  names  and  phrases,  the  love  of  hollow, 
idiotic  words,  of  shutting  the  eyes  tight  and 
making  a  noise.  Do  men  who  respect  each  other 
or  themselves  talk  to  each  other  that  way  ?  They 
know  they  would  deserve  kicking !  A  man  would 
blush  to  say  to  himself  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night  the  things  he  stands  up  on  a  platform  in 
the  garish  light  of  day  to  stuff  into  the  ears 
of  a  multitude  whose  intelligence  he  pretends 
that  he  esteems."  Nick  Dormer  stood  at  one  of 
the  windows,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He 
had  been  looking  out,  but  as  his  words  followed 
each  other  faster  he  turned  toward  Mrs.  Dallow, 
who  had  dropped  upon  a  sofa,  with  her  face  to 
the  window.  She  had  given  her  jacket  and  gloves 
to  her  maid,  but  had  kept  on  her  bonnet ;  and 
she  leaned  forward  a  little  as  she  sat,  with  her 
hands  clasped  together  in  her  lap  and  her  eyes 
upon  her  companion.  The  lamp,  in  a  corner,  was 


114  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

so  thickly  veiled  that  the  room  was  in  tempered 
obscurity,  lighted  almost  equally  from  the  street, 
from  the  brilliant  shop-fronts  opposite.  "  There- 
fore, why  be  sapient  and  solemn  about  it,  like  an 
editorial  in  a  newspaper  ?  "  Nick  added,  with  a 
smile. 

She  continued  to  look  at  him  for  a  moment 
after  he  had  spoken  ;  then  she  said  :  "  If  you 
don't  want  to  stand,  you  have  only  to  say  so. 
You  need  n't  give  your  reasons." 

"  It 's  too  kind  of  you  to  let  me  off  that !  And 
then  I  'm  a  tremendous  fellow  for  reasons  ;  that 's 
my  strong  point,  don't  you  know  ?  I  Ve  a  lot 
more  besides  thosPl've  mentioned,  done  up 
and  ready  for  delivery.  The  odd  thing  is  that 
they  don't  always  govern  my  behavior.  I  rather 
think  I  do  want  to  stand." 

"  Then  what  you  said  just  now  was  a  speech," 
Mrs.  Dallow  rejoined. 

"  A  speech  ?  " 

"  The  '  rot,'  the  humbug  of  the  hustings." 

"No,  those  great  truths  remain,  and  a  good 
many  others.  But  an  inner  voice  tells  me  I  'm  in 
for  it.  And  it  will  be  much  more  graceful  to  em- 
brace this  opportunity,  accepting  your  coopera- 
tion, than  to  wait  for  some  other  and  forfeit  that 
advantage." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  help  you,  anywhere," 
said  Mrs.  Dallow. 

"  Thanks,  awfully,"  murmured  the  young  man, 
still  standing  there  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  115 

"  You  would  do  it  best  in  your  own  place,  and  I 
have  no  right  to  deny  myself  such  a  help." 

Julia  smiled  at  him  for  an  instant.  "I  don't 
do  it  badly." 

"  Ah,  you  're  so  political !  " 

"  Of  course  I  am  ;  it 's  the  only  decent  thing 
to  be.  But  I  can  only  help  you  if  you  '11  help 
yourself.  I  can  do  a  good  deal,  but  I  can't  do 
everything.  If  you  '11  work,  I  '11  work  with  you  ; 
but  if  you  are  going  into  it  with  your  hands  in 
your  pockets,  I  '11  have  nothing  to  do  with  you." 
Nick  instantly  changed  the  position  of  these 
members  and  sank  into  a  seat  with  his  elbows  on 
his  knees.  "  You  're  very  cl?ver,  but  you  must 
really  take  a  little  trouble.  Things  don't  drop 
into  people's  mouths." 

"  I  '11  try  —  I  '11  try.  I  have  a  great  incen- 
tive," Nick  said. 

"  Of  course  you  have." 

"  My  mother,  my  poor  mother."  Mrs.  Dallow 
made  a  slight  exclamation,  and  he  went  on : 
"  And  of  course,  always,  my  father,  dear  man. 
My  mother  's  even  more  political  than  you." 

"  I  dare  say  she  is,  and  quite  right ! "  said  Mrs. 
Dallow. 

"  And  she  can't  tell  me  a  bit  more  than  you 
can  what  she  thinks,  what  she  believes,  what  she 
desires." 

"  Excuse  me,  I  can  tell  you  perfectly.  There  's 
one  thing  I  always  desire  —  to  keep  out  a  Tory." 

"  I  see ;  that  's  a  great  philosophy." 


Il6  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  It  will  do  very  well.  And  I  desire  the  good 
of  the  country.  I  'm  not  ashamed  of  that." 

"  And  can  you  give  me  an  idea  of  what  it  is  — 
the  good  of  the  country  ? " 

"  I  know  perfectly  what  it  is  n't.  It  is  n't 
what  the  Tories  want  to  do." 

"  What  do  they  want  to  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  would  take  me  long  to  tell  you.  All 
sorts  of  trash." 

"It  would  take  you  long,  and  it  would  take 
them  longer  !  All  they  want  to  do  is  to  prevent 
us  from  doing.  On  our  side,  we  want  to  pre- 
vent them  from  preventing  us.  That  's  about  as 
clearly  as  we  all  see  it.  So,  on  one  side  and 
the  other,  it's  a  beautiful,  lucid,  inspiring  pro- 
gramme." 

"  I  don't  believe  in  you,"  Mrs.  Dallow  replied 
to  this,  leaning  back  on  her  sofa. 

"  I  hope  not,  Julia,  indeed  I "  He  paused  a 
moment,  still  with  his  face  toward  her  and  his 
elbows  on  his  knees ;  then  he  pursued :  "  You 
are  a  very  accomplished  woman  and  a  very  zeal- 
ous one  ;  but  you  have  n't  an  idea,  you  know  — 
to  call  an  idea.  What  you  mainly  want  is  to  be 
at  the  head  of  a  political  salon  ;  to  start  one,  to 
keep  it  up,  to  make  it  a  success." 

"Much  you  know  me  !  "  Julia  exclaimed  ;  but 
he  could  see,  through  the  dimness,  that  she  had 
colored  a  little. 

"  You  '11  have  it,  in  time,  but  I  won't  come  to 
it,"  Nick  went  on. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  \\J 

"  You  can't  come  less  than  you  do." 

"  When  I  say  you  '11  have  it,  I  mean  you  've 
already  got  it.  That  's  why  I  don't  come." 

"  I  don't  think  you  know  what  you  mean,"  said 
Mrs.  Dallow.  "  I  have  an  idea  that 's  as  good  as 
any  of  yours,  any  of  those  you  have  treated  me 
to  this  evening,  it  seems  to  me  —  the  simple  idea 
that  one  ought  to  do  something  or  other  for  one's 
country." 

" '  Something  or  other '  certainly  covers  all  the 
ground.  There  is  one  thing  one  can  always  do 
for  one's  country,  which  is  not  to  be  afraid." 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

Nick  Dormer  hesitated  a  moment,  laughing ; 
then  he  said,  "  I  '11  tell  you  another  time.  It 's 
very  well  to  talk  so  glibly  of  standing,"  he  added  ; 
"but  it  isn't  absolutely  foreign  to  the  question 
that  I  have  n't  got  the  cash." 

"  What  did  you  do  before  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Dallow. 

"  The  first  time  my  father  paid." 

"  And  the  other  time  ? " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Carteret." 

"  Your  expenses  won't  be  at  all  large ;  on  the 
contrary,"  said  Julia, 

"  They  sha'n't  be ;  I  shall  look  out  sharp  for 
that.  I  shall  have  the  great  Hutchby." 

"  Of  course ;  but,  you  know,  I  want  you  to  do 
it  well."  She  paused  an  instant,  and  then:  "Of 
course  you  can  send  the  bill  to  me." 

"  Thanks,  awfully  ;  you  're  tremendously  kind. 
I  shouldn't  think  of  that."  Nick  Dormer  got  up 


Il8  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

as  he  said  these  words,  and  walked  to  the  win- 
dow again,  his  companion's  eyes  resting  upon 
him  as  he  stood  for  a  moment  with  his  back  to 
her.  "  I  shall  manage  it  somehow,"  he  went  on. 

"  Mr.  Carteret  will  be  delighted,"  said  Julia. 

"I  dare  say,  but  I  hate  taking  people's  money." 

"  That 's  nonsense,  when  it 's  for  the  country. 
Is  n't  it  for  them  ?  " 

"  When  they  get  it  back  !  "  Nick  replied,  turn- 
ing round  and  looking  for  his  hat.  "  It 's  start- 
lingly  late  ;  you  must  be  tired."  Mrs.  Dallow 
made  no  response  to  this,  and  he  pursued  his 
quest,  successful  only  when  he  reached  a  duskier 
corner  of  the  room,  to  which  the  hat  had  been 
relegated  by  his  cousin's  maid.  "  Mr.  Carteret 
will  expect  so  much,  if  he  pays.  And  so  would 
you." 

"  Yes,  I  'm  bound  to  say  I  should  !  "  And 
Mrs.  Dallow  emphasized  this  assertion  by  the 
way  she  rose  erect.  "  If  you  're  only  going  in  to 
lose  it,  you  had  better  stay  out." 

"How  can  I  lose  it,  with  you?"  the  young 
man  asked,  smiling.  She  uttered  a  word,  impa- 
tiently but  indistinguishably,  and  he  continued  : 
"  And  even  if  I  do,  it  will  have  been  immense 
fun." 

"It  is  immense  fun,"  said  Julia.  "  But  the  best 
fun  is  to  win.  If  you  don't  "  — 

"  If  I  don't  ? "  he  repeated,  as  she  hesitated. 

"  I  '11  never  speak  to  you  again." 

"  How  much  you  expect,  even  when  you  don't 
pay ! " 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  1 19 

Mrs.  Dallow's  rejoinder  was  a  justification  of 
this  remark,  embodying  as  it  did  the  fact  that  if 
they  should  receive  on  the  morrow  certain  infor- 
mation on  which  she  believed  herself  entitled 
to  count,  information  tending  to  show  that  the 
Tories  meant  to  fight  the  seat  hard,  not  to  lose 
it  again,  she  should  look  to  him  to  be  in  the  field 
as  early  as  herself.  Sunday  was  a  lost  day  ;  she 
should  leave  Paris  on  Monday. 

"  Oh,  they  '11  fight  it  hard  ;  they  '11  put  up 
Kingsbury,"  said  Nick,  smoothing  his  hat. 
"  They  '11  all  come  down  —  all  that  can  get  away. 
And  Kingsbury  has  a  very  handsome  wife." 

"  She  is  not  so  handsome  as  your  cousin," 
Mrs.  Dallow  hazarded. 

"  Oh  dear,  no  —  a  cousin  sooner  than  a  wife, 
any  day  !  "  Nick  laughed  as  soon  as  he  had  said 
this,  as  if  the  speech  had  an  awkward  side ;  but 
the  reparation  perhaps  scarcely  mended  it,  the  ex- 
aggerated mock-meekness  with  which  he  added  : 
"  I  '11  do  any  blessed  thing  you  tell  me." 

"  Come  here  to-morrow,  then,  as  early  as  ten." 
She  turned  round,  moving  to  the  door  with  him  ; 
but  before  they  reached  it  she  demanded,  ab- 
ruptly :  "  Pray,  is  n't  a  gentleman  to  do  anything, 
to  be  anything? " 

"  To  be  anything  ?  " 

"  If  he  does  n't  aspire  to  serve  the  state." 

"  To  make  his  political  fortune,  do  you  mean  ? 
Oh,  bless  me,  yes,  there  are  other  things." 

"  What  other  things,  that  can  compare  with 
that?" 


I2O  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE, 

"Well,  I,  for  instance,  I  'm  very  fond  of  the 
arts." 

"  Of  the  arts  ? " 

"  Did  you  never  hear  of  them  ?  I  'm  awfully- 
fond  of  painting." 

At  this  Mrs.  Dallow  stopped  short,  and  her 
fine  gray  eyes  had  for  a  moment  the  air  of  be- 
ing set  further  forward  in  her  head.  "  Don't  be 
odious  !  Good-night,"  she  said,  turning  away  and 
leaving  him  to  go. 


VII. 

PETER  SHERRINGHAM,  the  next  day,  reminded 
Nick  that  he  had  promised  to  be  present  with  him 
at  Madame  Carry's  interview  with  the  ladies  in- 
troduced to  her  by  Gabriel  Nash ;  and  in  the  after- 
noon, in  accordance  with  this  arrangement,  the 
two  men  took  their  way  to  the  Rue  de  Constan- 
tinople. They  found  Mr.  Nash  and  his  friends 
in  the  small  beflounced  drawing-room  of  the 
old  actress,  who,  as  they  learned,  had  sent  in  a 
request  for  ten  minutes'  grace,  having  been  de- 
tained at  a  lesson  —  a  rehearsal  of  a  comitdie  de 
salon,  to  be  given,  for  a  charity,  by  a  fine  lady,  at 
which  she  had  consented  to  be  present  as  an  ad- 
viser. Mrs.  Rooth  sat  on  a  black  satin  sofa,  with 
her  daughter  beside  her,  and  Gabriel  Nash  wan- 
dered about  the  room,  looking  at  the  votive  offer- 
ings which  converted  the  little  paneled  box,  de- 
corated in  sallow  white  and  gold,  into  a  theatrical 
museum :  the  presents,  the  portraits,  the  wreaths, 
the  diadems,  the  letters,  framed  and  glazed,  the 
trophies  and  tributes  and  relics  collected  by  Ma- 
dame Carre  during  half  a  century  of  renown.  The 
profusion  of  this  testimony  was  hardly  more  strik- 
ing than  the  confession  of  something  missed, 
something  hushed,  which  seemed  to  rise  from  it 


122  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

all  and  make  it  melancholy,  like  a  reference  to 
clappings  which,  in  the  nature  of  things,  could 
now  only  be  present  as  a  silence  :  so  that  if  the 
place  was  full  of  history,  it  was  the  form  without 
the  fact,  or  at  the  most  a  redundancy  of  the  one 
to  a  pinch  of  the  other  —  the  history  of  a  mask, 
of  a  squeak,  a  record  of  movements  in  the  air. 

Some  of  the  objects  exhibited  by  the  distin- 
guished artist,  her  early  portraits,  in  lithograph 
or  miniature,  represented  the  costume  and  em- 
bodied the  manner  of  a  period  so  remote  that 
Nick  Dormer,  as  he  glanced  at  them,  felt  a  quick- 
ened curiosity  to  look  at  the  woman  who  recon- 
ciled being  alive  to-day  with  having  been  alive  so 
long  ago.  Peter  Sherringham  alreadv  knew  how 
she  managed  this  miracle,  but  every  visit  he  paid 
to  her  added  to  his  amused,  charmed  sense  that 
it  was  a  miracle,  and  his  extraordinary  old  friend 
had  seen  things  that  he  should  never,  never  see. 
Those  were  just  the  things  he  wanted  to  see 
most,  and  her  duration,  her  survival,  cheated  him 
agreeably  and  helped  him  a  little  to  guess  them. 
His  appreciation  of  the  actor's  art  was  so  syste- 
matic that  it  had  an  antiquarian  side,  and  at  the 
risk  of  representing  him  as  attached  to  a  futility 
it  must  be  said  that  he  had  as  yet  hardly  known 
a  keener  regret  for  anything  than  for  the  loss  of 
that  antecedent  world,  and  in  particular  for  his 
having  come  too  late  for  the  great  comedienne, 
the  light  of  the  French  stage  in  the  early  years 
of  the  century,  of  whose  example  and  instruction 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  12$ 

Madame  Carr6  had  had  the  inestimable  benefit. 
She  had  often  described  to  him  her  rare  prede- 
cessor, straight  from  whose  hands  she  had  re- 
ceived her  most  celebrated  parts,  and  of  whom 
her  own  manner  was  often  a  religious  imitation  ; 
but  her  descriptions  troubled  him  more  than  they 
consoled,  only  confirming  his  theory,  to  which  so 
much  of  his  observation  had  already  ministered, 
that  the  actor's  art,  in  general,  is  going  down  and 
down,  descending  a  slope  with  abysses  of  vulgar- 
ity at  its  foot,  after  having  reached  its  perfection, 
more  than  fifty  years  ago,  in  the  talent  of  the 
lady  in  question.  He  would  have  liked  to  dwell 
for  an  hour  beneath  the  meridian. 

Gabriel  Nash  introduced  the  new-comers  to  his 
companions  ;  but  the  younger  of  the  two  ladies 
gave  no  sign  of  lending  herself  to  this  transac- 
tion. The  girl  was  very  white ;  she  huddled 
there,  silent  and  rigid,  frightened  to  death,  star- 
ing, expressionless.  If  Bridget  Dormer  had  seen 
her  at  this  moment  she  might  have  felt  avenged 
for  the  discomfiture  she  had  suffered  the  day 
before,  at  the  Salon,  under  the  challenging  eyes 
of  Maud  Vavasour.  It  was  plain  at  the  present 
hour,  that  Miss  Vavasour  would  have  run  away 
had  she  not  felt  that  the  persons  present  would 
prevent  her  escape.  Her  aspect  made  Nick 
Dormer  feel  as  if  the  little  temple  of  art  in  which 
they  were  collected  had  been  the  waiting-room 
of  a  dentist.  Sherringham  had  seen  a  great 
many  nervous  girls  trembling  before  the  same 


124  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

ordeal,  and  he  liked  to  be  kind  to  them,  to  say 
things  that  would  help  them  to  do  themselves 
j  ustice.  The  probability,  in  a  given  case,  was  al- 
most overwhelmingly  in  favor  of  their  having  any 
other  talent  one  could  think  of  in  a  higher  degree 
than  the  dramatic  ;  but  he  could  rarely  forbear 
to  interpose,  even  as  against  his  conscience,  to 
keep  the  occasion  from  being  too  cruel.  There 
were  occasions  indeed  that  could  scarcely  be  too 
cruel  to  punish  properly  certain  examples  of  pre- 
sumptuous ineptitude.  He  remembered  what 
Mr.  Nash  had  said  about  this  blighted  maiden, 
and  perceived  that  though  she  might  be  inept  she 
was  now  anything  but  presumptuous.  Gabriel 
fell  to  talking  with  Nick  Dormer,  and  Peter  ad- 
dressed himself  to  Mrs.  Rooth.  There  was  no 
use  as  yet  in  saying  anything  to  the  girl ;  she  was 
too  scared  even  to  hear.  Mrs.  Rooth,  with  her 
shawl  fluttering  about  her,  nestled  against  her 
daughter,  putting  out  her  hand  to  take  one  of 
Miriam's,  soothingly.  She  had  pretty,  silly,  near- 
sighted eyes,  a  long,  thin  nose  and  an  upper  lip 
which  projected  over  the  under  as  an  ornamental 
cornice  rests  on  its  support.  "  So  much  depends 
—  really  everything !  "  she  said  in  answer  to 
some"  sociable  observation  of  Sherringham's. 
"  It 's  either  this,"  and  she  rolled  her  eyes  expres- 
sively about  the  room,  "  or  it 's  —  I  don't  know 
what !  " 

"  Perhaps  we  're  too  many,"  Peter  hazarded,  to 
her  daughter.     "  But  really,  you  '11  find,  after  you 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  12$ 

fairly  begin,  that  you  '11  do  better  with  four  or 
five." 

Before  she  answered  she  turned  her  head  and 
lifted  her  fine  eyes.  The  next  instant  he  saw 
they  were  full  of  tears.  The  word  she  spoke, 
however,  though  uttered  in  a  deep,  serious  tone, 
had  not  the  note  of  sensibility :  "  Oh,  I  don't  care 
for  you!"  He  laughed,  at  this,  declared  it  was 
very  well  said,  and  that  if  she  could  give  Madame 
Carr6  such  a  specimen  as  that  —  !  The  actress 
came  in  before  he  had  finished  his  phrase,  and  he 
observed  the  way  the  girl  slowly  got  up  to  meet 
her,  hanging  her  head  a  little  and  looking  at  her 
from  under  her  brows.  There  was  no  sentiment 
in  her  face  —  only  a  kind  of  vacancy  of  terror 
which  had  not  even  the  merit  of  being  fine  of  its 
kind,  for  it  seemed  stupid  and  superstitious.  Yet 
the  head  was  good,  he  perceived  at  the  same  mo- 
ment ;  it  was  strong  and  salient  and  made  to  tell 
at  a  distance.  Madame  Carr6  scarcely  noticed 
her  at  first,  greeting  her  only  in  her  order,  with 
the  others,  and  pointing  to  seats,  composing  the 
circle  with  smiles  and  gestures,  as  if  they  were 
all  before  the  prompter's  box.  The  old  actress 
presented  herself  to  a  casual  glance  as  a  red-faced 
woman  in  a  wig,  with  beady  eyes,  a  hooked  nose 
and  pretty  hands  ;  but  Nick  Dormer,  who  had  a 
perception  of  physiognomy,  speedily  observed  that 
these  free  characteristics  included  a  great  deal  of 
delicate  detail  —  an  eyebrow,  a  nostril,  a  flitting 
of  expressions,  as  if  a  multitude  of  little  facial 


126  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

wires  were  pulled  from  within.  This  accom- 
plished artist  had  in  particular  a  mouth  which 
was  visibly  a  rare  instrument,  a  pair  of  lips  whose 
curves  and  fine  corners  spoke  of  a  lifetime  of 
"  points  "  unerringly  made  and  verses  exquisitely 
spoken,  helping  to  explain  the  purity  of  the 
sound  that  issued  from  them.  Her  whole  coun- 
tenance had  the  look  of  long  service  —  of  a  thing 
infinitely  worn  and  used,  drawn  and  stretched  to 
excess,  with  its  elasticity  overdone  and  its  springs 
relaxed,  yet  religiously  preserved  and  kept  in  re- 
pair, like  an  old  valuable  time-piece,  which  might 
have  quivered  and  rumbled,  but  could  be  trusted 
to  strike  the  hour.  At  the  first  words  she  spoke 
Gabriel  Nash  exclaimed,  endearingly,  "  Ah,  la  voix 
de  Celimene!"  Celimene,  who  wore  a  big  red 
flower  on  the  summit  of  her  dense  wig,  had  a 
very  grand  air,  a  toss  of  the  head  and  sundry 
little  majesties  of  manner ;  in  addition  to  which 
she  was  strange,  almost  grotesque,  and  to  some 
people  would  have  been  even  terrifying,  capable  of 
reappearing,  with  her  hard  eyes,  as  a  queer  vision 
in  the  darkness.  She  excused  herself  for  having 
made  the  company  wait,  and  mouthed  and  mim- 
icked in  the  drollest  way,  with  intonations  as  fine 
as  a  flute,  the  performance  and  the  pretensions 
of  the  belles  dames  to  whom  she  had  just  been 
endeavoring  to  communicate  a  few  of  the  rudi- 
ments. "Mais  celles-la,  c'est  une  plaisanterie," 
she  went  on,  to  Mrs.  Rooth  ;  "whereas  you  and 
your  daughter,  chere  madame  —  I  am  sure  that 
you  are  quite  another  matter." 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  127 

The  girl  had  got  rid  of  her  tears,  and  was  gaz- 
ing at  her,  and  Mrs.  Rooth  leaned  forward  and 
said  insinuatingly  :  "  She  knows  four  languages." 

Madame  Carr6  gave  one  of  her  histrionic 
stares,  throwing  back  her  head.  "  That 's  three 
too  many.  The  thing  is  to  do  something  with 
one  of  them." 

"We're  very  much  in  earnest,"  continued 
Mrs.  Rooth,  who  spoke  excellent  French. 

"  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it  —  il  n'y  a  que  ca.  La 
tete  est  bien  —  the  head  is  very  good,"  she  said, 
looking  at  the  girl.  "But  let  us  see,  my  dear 
child,  what  you  've  got  in  it !  "  The  young  lady 
was  still  powerless  to  speak  ;  she  opened  her  lips, 
but  nothing  came.  With  the  failure  of  this  effort 
she  turned  her  deep,  sombre  eyes  upon  the  three 
men.  "  Un  beau  regard —  it  carries  well,"  Ma- 
dame Carre  hinted.  But  even  as  she  spoke  Miss 
Rooth's  fine  gaze  was  suffused  again,  and  the 
next  moment  she  had  begun  to  weep.  Nick 
Dormer  sprung  up  ;  he  felt  embarrassed  and  in- 
trusive —  there  was  such  an  indelicacy  in  sitting 
there  to  watch  a  poor  girl's  struggle  with  timidity. 
There  was  a  momentary  confusion  ;  Mrs.  Rooth's 
tears  were  seen  also  to  flow ;  Gabriel  Nash  began 
to  laugh,  addressing,  however,  at  the  same  time, 
the  friendliest,  most  familiar  encouragement  to 
his  companions,  and  Peter  Sherringham  offered 
to  retire  with  Nick  on  the  spot,  if  their  presence 
was  oppressive  to  the  young  lady.  But  the  agi- 
tation was  over  in  a  minute  ;  Madame  Carr6  mo- 


128  THE  TRAGIC  MUSE. 

tioned  Mrs.  Rooth  out  of  her  seat  and  took  her 
place  beside  the  girl,  and  Gabriel  Nash  explained 
judiciously  to  the  other  men  that  she  would  be 
worse  if  they  were  to  go  away.  Her  mother 
begged  them  to  remain,  "  so  that  there  should  be 
at  least  some  English  ; "  she  spoke  as  if  the  old 
actress  were  an  army  of  Frenchwomen.  The 
girl  was  quickly  better,  and  Madame  Carr£,  on 
the  sofa  beside  her,  held  her  hand  and  emitted  a 
perfect  music  of  reassurance.  "  The  nerves,  the 
nerves  —  they  are  half  of  our  trade.  Have  as 
many  as  you  like,  if  you  've  got  something  else 
too.  Voyons  —  do  you  know  anything  ? " 

"  I  know  some  pieces." 

"  Some  pieces  of  the  repertoire  ?  " 

Miriam  Rooth  stared  as  if  she  did  n't  under- 
stand. "  I  know  some  poetry." 

"  English,  French,  Italian,  German,"  said  her 
mother. 

Madame  Carre"  gave  Mrs.  Rooth  a  look  which 
expressed  irritation  at  the  recurrence  of  this  an- 
nouncement. "Does  she  wish  to  act  in  all 
those  tongues  ?  The  phrase-book  is  n't  the 
comedy !  " 

"  It  is  only  to  show  you  how  she  has  been  edu- 
cated." 

"  Ah,  chtre  madame,  there  is  no  education  that 
matters  !  I  mean  save  the  right  one.  Your 
daughter  must  have  a  language,  like  me,  like  ces 
messieurs" 

"  You  see  if  I  can  speak  French,"  said  the  girl, 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  1 29 

smiling  dimly  at  her  hostess.  She  appeared  now 
almost  to  have  collected  herself. 

"  You  speak  it  in  perfection." 

"And  English  just  as  well,"  said  Miss  Rooth. 

"You  ought  n't  to  be  an  actress ;  you  ought  to 
be  a  governess." 

"  Oh,  don't  tell  us  that :  it 's  to  escape  from 
that !  "  pleaded  Mrs.  Rooth. 

"I'm  very  sure  your  daughter  will  escape 
from  that,"  Peter  Sherringham  was  moved  to 
remark. 

"  Oh,  if  you  could  help  her ! "  the  lady  ex- 
claimed, pathetically. 

"  She  has  certainly  all  the  qualities  that  strike 
the  eye,"  said  Peter. 

"You  are  most  kind,  sir!"  Mrs.  Rooth  de- 
clared, elegantly  draping  herself. 

"  She  knows  Celimene ;  I  have  heard  her  do 
Ce"limene,"  Gabriel  Nash  said  to  Madame  Carre". 

"And  she  knows  Juliet,  and  Lady  Macbeth, 
and  Cleopatra,"  added  Mrs.  Rooth. 

"  Voyons,  my  dear  child,  do  you  wish  to  work 
for  the  French  stage  or  for  the  English  ? "  the 
old  actress  demanded. 

"Ours  would  have  sore  need  of  you,  Miss 
Rooth,"  Sherringham  gallantly  interposed. 

"  Could  you  speak  to  any  one  in  London  — 
could  you  introduce  her  ? "  her  mother  eagerly 
asked. 

"  Dear  madam,  I  must  hear  her  first,  and  hear 
what  Madame  Carre"  says." 


130  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  She  has  a  voice  of  rare  beauty,  and  I  under- 
stand voices,"  said  Mrs.  Rooth. 

"  Ah,  then,  if  she  has  intelligence,  she  has 
every  gift."  *  " 

"  She  has  a  most  poetic  mind,"  the  old  lady 
went  on. 

"  I  should  like  to  paint  her  portrait ;  she  's 
made  for  that,"  Nick  Dormer  ventured  to  observe 
to  Mrs.  Rooth  ;  partly  because  he  was  struck  with 
the  girl's  capacity  as  a  model,  partly  to  mitigate 
the  crudity  of  inexpressive  spectatorship. 

"  So  all  the  artists  say.  I  have  had  three  or 
four  heads  of  her,  if  you  would  like  to  see  them  : 
she  has  been  done  in  several  styles.  If  you  were 
to  do  her  I  am  sure  it  would  make  her  cele- 
brated." 

"  And  me  too,"  said  Nick,  laughing. 

"  It  would  indeed,  a  member  of  Parliament ! " 
Nash  declared. 

"  Ah,  I  have  the  honour  —  ?  "  murmured  Mrs. 
Rooth,  looking  gratified  and  mystified. 

Nick  explained  that  she  had  no  honour  at  all, 
and  meanwhile  Madame  Carre  had  been  question- 
ing the  girl.  "  Chtre  madame,  I  can  do  nothing 
with  your  daughter  ;  she  knows  too  much  !  "  she 
broke  out.  "  It 's  a  pity,  because  I  like  to  catch 
them  wild." 

"  Oh,  she 's  wild  enough,  if  that 's  all !  And 
that's  the  very  point,  the  question  of  where  to 
try,"  Mrs.  Rooth  went  on.  "Into  what  do  I 
launch  her  —  upon  what  dangerous,  stormy  sea? 
I  've  thought  of  it  so  anxiously." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  131 

"  Try  here  —  try  the  French  public  :  they  're  so 
much  the  most  serious,"  said  Gabriel  Nash. 

"  Ah,  no,  try  the  English  :  there 's  such  a  rare 
opening! "  Sherringham  exclaimed,  in  quick  oppo- 
sition. 

"  Ah,  it  is  n't  the  public,  dear  gentlemen.  It 's 
the  private  side,  the  other  people  —  it 's  the  life 
—  it 's  the  moral  atmosphere." 

"  Je  ne  connais  qu'une  scene  —  la  n6tre,"  Ma- 
dame Carre"  asserted.  "  I  have  been  informed 
there  is  no  other." 

"  And  very  correctly,"  said  Gabriel  Nash. 
"  The  theatre  in  our  countries  is  puerile  and  bar- 
barous." 

"  There  is  something  to  be  done  for  it,  and  per- 
haps mademoiselle  is  the  person  to  do  it,"  Sher- 
ringham suggested,  contentiously. 

"  Ah,  but,  en  attendant,  what  can  it  do  for 
her  ?  "  Madame  Carr6  asked. 

"  Well,  anything  that  I  can  help  it  to  do,"  said 
Peter  Sherringham,  who  was  more  and  more 
struck  with  the  girl's  rich  type.  Miriam  Rooth 
sat  in  silence,  while  this  discussion  went  on,  look- 
ing from  one  speaker  to  the  other  with  a  sus- 
pended, literal  air. 

"  Ah,  if  your  part  is  marked  out,  I  congratu- 
late you,  mademoiselle  !  "  said  the  old  actress, 
underlining  the  words  as  she  had  often  under- 
lined such  words  on  the  stage.  She  smiled  with 
large  permissiveness  on  the  young  aspirant,  who 
appeared  not  to  understand  her.  Her  tone  pene- 


132  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

trated,  however,  to  certain  depths  in  the  mother's 
nature,  adding  another  stir  to  agitated  waters. 

"  I  feel  the  responsibility  of  what  she  shall  find 
in  the  life,  the  standards,  of  the  theatre,"  Mrs. 
Rooth  explained.  "  Where  is  the  purest  tone  — 
where  are  the  highest  standards  ?  that 's  what  I 
ask,"  the  good  lady  continued,  with  a  persistent 
candor  which  elicited  a  peal  of  unceremonious 
but  sociable  laughter  from  Gabriel  Nash. 

"  The  purest  tone  —  qu*  est-ce-que-c  est  que  fa  f  " 
Madame  Carr6  demanded,  in  the  finest  manner 
of  modern  comedy. 

"  We  are  very,  very  respectable,"  Mrs.  Rooth 
went  on,  smiling  and  achieving  lightness,  too. 
"What  I  want  to  do  is  to  place  my  daughter 
where  the  conduct  —  and  the  picture  of  conduct, 
in  which  she  should  take  part  —  would  n't  be 
absolutely  dreadful.  Now,  chhe  madame,  how 
about  all  that ;  how  about  the  conduct  in  the 
French  theatre  —  the  things  she  should  see,  the 
things  she  should  hear  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  I  know  what  you  are  talking 
about.  They  are  the  things  she  may  see  and 
hear  everywhere  ;  only  they  are  better  done,  they 
are  better  said.  The  only  conduct  that  concerns 
an  actress,  it  seems  to  me,  is  her  own,  and  the 
only  way  for  her  to  behave  herself  is  not  to  be  a 
stick.  I  know  no  other  conduct." 

"  But  there  are  characters,  there  are  situations, 
which  I  don't  think  I  should  like  to  see  her  un- 
dertake." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  133 

"  There  are  many,  no  doubt,  which  she  would 
do  well  to  leave  alone ! "  laughed  the  French- 
woman. 

"  I  should  n't  like  to  see  her  represent  a  very 
bad  woman  —  a  really  bad  one,"  Mrs.  Rooth  se- 
renely pursued. 

"Ah,  in  England,  then,  and  in  your  theatre, 
every  one  is  good  ?  Your  plays  must  be  even 
more  ingenious  than  I  supposed  ! " 

"  We  have  n't  any  plays,"  said  Gabriel  Nash. 

"People  will  write  them  for  Miss  Rooth — it 
will  be  a  new  era,"  Peter  Sherringham  rejoined, 
with  wanton,  or  at  any  rate  combative  optimism. 

"  Will  you,  sir  —  will  you  do  something  ?  A 
sketch  of  some  truly  noble  female  type  ? "  the  old 
lady  asked,  engagingly. 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  do  with  our  pieces  — 
to  show  your  superior  virtue !  "  Madame  Carre 
broke  in,  before  he  had  time  to  reply  that  he 
wrote  nothing  but  diplomatic  memoranda.  "  Bad 
women  ?  Je  n'ai  jou6  que  c,a,  madame.  '  Really ' 
bad  ?  I  tried  to  make  them  real !  " 

"  I  can  say  '  L'Aventuriere,'  "  Miriam  inter- 
rupted, in  a  cold  voice  which  seemed  to  hint  at  a 
want  of  participation  in  the  maternal  solicitudes. 

"  Confer  on  us  the  pleasure  of  hearing  you, 
then.  Madame  Carr6  will  give  you  the  replique^ 
said  Peter  Sherringham. 

"  Certainly,  my  child  ;  I  can  say  it  without  the 
book,"  Madame  Carre  responded.  "  Put  yourself 
there — move  that  chair  a  little  away."  She 


134  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

patted  her  young  visitor,  encouraging  her  to  rise, 
settling  with  her  the  scene  they  should  take, 
while  the  three  men  sprang  up  to  arrange  a  place 
for  the  performance.  Miriam  left  her  seat  and 
looked  vaguely  round  her  ;  then,  having  taken  off 
her  hat  and  given  it  to  her  mother,  she  stood  on 
the  designated  spot  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 
Abruptly,  however,  instead  of  beginning  the 
scene,  Madame  Carr£  turned  to  the  elder  lady 
with  an  air  which  showed  that  a  rejoinder  to  this 
visitor's  remarks  of  a  moment  before  had  been 
gathering  force  in  her  breast. 

"  You  mix  things  up,  chtre  madame,  and  I 
have  it  on  my  heart  to  tell  you  so.  I  believe  it's 
rather  the  case  with  you  other  English,  and  I 
have  never  been  able  to  learn  that  either  your 
morality  or  your  talent  is  the  gainer  by  it.  To 
be  too  respectable  to  go  where  things  are  done 
best  is,  in  my  opinion,  to  be  very  vicious  indeed  ; 
and  to  do  them  badly  in  order  to  preserve  your 
virtue  is  to  fall  into  a  grossness  more  shocking 
than  any  other.  To  do  them  well  is  virtue 
enough,  and  not  to  make  a  mess  of  it  the  only  re- 
spectability. That 's  hard  enough  to  merit  Para- 
dise. Everything  else  is  base  humbug!  Voild 
chtre  madame,  the  answer  I  have  for  your  scru- 
ples!" 

"  It 's  admirable  —  admirable  ;  and  I  am  glad 
my  friend  Dormer  here  has  had  the  great  ad- 
vantage of  hearing  you  utter  it !  "  Gabriel  Nash 
exclaimed,  looking  at  Nick. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  135 

Nick  thought  it,  in  effect,  a  speech  denoting  an 
intelligence  of  the  question,  but  he  rather  re- 
sented the  idea  that  Nash  should  assume  that  it 
would  strike  him  as  a  revelation  ;  and  to  show  his 
familiarity  with  the  line  of  thought  it  indicated, 
as  well  as  to  play  his  part  appreciatively  in  the 
little  circle,  he  observed  to  Mrs.  Rooth,  as  if  they 
might  take  many  things  for  granted  :  "  In  other 
words,  your  daughter  must  find  her  safeguard  in 
the  artistic  conscience."  But  he  had  no  sooner 
spoken  than  he  was  struck  with  the  oddity  of 
their  discussing  so  publicly,  and  under  the  poor 
girl's  nose,  the  conditions  which  Miss  Rooth 
might  find  the  best  for  the  preservation  of  her 
personal  integrity.  However,  the  anomaly  was 
light  and  unoppressive  —  the  echoes  of  a  public 
discussion  of  delicate  questions  seemed  to  linger 
so  familiarly  in  the  egotistical  little  room.  More- 
over the  heroine  of  the  occasion  evidently  was 
losing  her  embarrassment  ;  she  was  the  priestess 
on  the  tripod,  awaiting  the  afflatus  and  thinking 
only  of  that.  Her  bared  head,  of  which  she  had 
changed  the  position,  holding  it  erect,  while  her 
arms  hung  at  her  sides,  was  admirable  ;  and  her 
eyes  gazed  straight  out  of  the  window,  at  the 
houses  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Rue  de  Con- 
stantinople. 

Mrs.  Rooth  had  listened  to  Madame  Carr6  with 
startled,  respectful  attention,  but  Nick,  consider- 
ing her,  was  very  sure  that  she  had  not  under- 
stood her  hostess's  little  lesson.  Yet  this  did 


136  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

not  prevent  her  from  exclaiming  in  answer  to 
him:  "Oh,  a  fine  artistic  life  —  what  indeed  is 
more  beautiful  ? " 

Peter  Sherringham  had  said  nothing  ;  he  was 
watching  Miriam  and  her  attitude.  She  wore  a 
black  dress,  which  fell  in  straight  folds  ;  her  face, 
under  her  mobile  brows,  was  pale  and  regular, 
with  a  strange,  strong,  tragic  beauty.  "  I  don't 
know  what 's  in  her,"  he  said  to  himself ;  "  noth- 
ing, it  would  seem,  from  her  persistent  vacancy. 
But  such  a  face  as  that,  such  a  head,  is  a  for- 
tune ! "  Madame  Carre  made  her  commence, 
giving  her  the  first  line  of  the  speech  of  Clorinde  : 
"  Vous  ne  me  fuyez  pas,  mon  enfant,  aujourd'hui." 
But  still  the  girl  hesitated,  and  for  an  instant  she 
appeared  to  make  a  vain,  convulsive  effort.  In 
this  effort  she  frowned  portentously ;  her  low 
forehead  overhung  her  eyes  ;  the  eyes  themselves, 
in  shadow,  stared,  splendid  and  cold,  and  her 
hands  clinched  themselves  at  her  sides.  She 
looked  austere  and  terrible,  and  during  this  mo- 
ment she  was  an  incarnation  the  vividness  of 
which  drew  from  Sherringham  a  stifled  cry. 
"  Elle  est  bien  belle — ah,  ga!"  murmured  the  old 
actress  ;  and  in  the  pause  which  still  preceded 
the  issue  of  sound  from  the  girl's  lips  Peter 
turned  to  his  kinsman,  and  said  in  alow  tone  : 

"  You  must  paint  her  just  like  that." 

"  Like  that  ? " 

"  As  the  Tragic  Muse." 

She  began  to  speak ;  a  long,  strong,  colorless 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  137 

voice  came  quavering  from  her  young  throat 
She  delivered  the  lines  of  Clorinde,  in  the  fine 
interview  with  C61ie,  in  the  third  act  of  the  play, 
with-  a  rude  monotony,  and  then,  gaining  confi- 
dence, with  an  effort  at  modulation  which  was 
not  altogether  successful  and  which  evidently 
she  felt  not  to  be  so.  Madame  Carr6  sent  back 
the  ball  without  raising  her  hand,  repeating  the 
speeches  of  Cdlie,  which  her  memory  possessed 
from  their  having  so  often  been  addressed  to  her, 
and  uttering  the  verses  with  soft,  communicative 
art.  So  they  went  on  through  the  scene,  and 
when  it  was  over  it  had  not  precisely  been  a 
triumph  for  Miriam  Rooth.  Sherringham  for- 
bore to  look  at  Gabriel  Nash,  and  Madame  Carr6 
said  :  "  I  think  you  have  a  voice,  ma  fille,  some- 
where or  other.  We  must  try  and  put  our  hand 
on  it."  Then  she  asked  her  what  instruction  she 
had  had,  and  the  girl,  lifting  her  eyebrows, 
looked  at  her  mother,  while  her  mother  prompted 
her. 

"  Mrs.  Delamere,  in  London  ;  she  was  once  an 
ornament  of  the  English  stage.  She  gives  les- 
sons just  to  a  very  few  ;  it 's  a  great  favour.  Such 
a  very  nice  person  !  But  above  all,  Signor  Rug- 
gieri  —  I  think  he  taught  us  most."  Mrs.  Rooth 
explained  that  this  gentleman  was  an  Italian 
tragedian,  in  Rome,  who  instructed  Miriam  in 
the  proper  manner  of  pronouncing  his  language, 
and  also  in  the  art  of  declaiming  and  gesticu- 
lating. 


138  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Gesticulating,  I  '11  warrant ! "  declared  their 
hostess.  "  They  mimic  as  if  for  the  deaf,  they 
emphasize  as  if  for  the  blind.  Mrs.  Delamere  is 
doubtless  an  epitome  of  all  the  virtues,  but  I 
never  heard  of  her.  You  travel  too  much,"  Ma- 
dame Carre"  went  on  ;  "  that 's  very  amusing,  but 
the  way  to  study  is  to  stay  at  home,  to  shut  your- 
self up  and  hammer  at  your  scales."  Mrs.  Rooth 
complained  that  they  had  no  home  to  stay  at ; 
in  rejoinder  to  which  the  old  actress  exclaimed, 
"  Oh,  you  English,  you  are  (tune  legtrett  a  faire 
rougir.  If  you  have  n't  a  home,  you  must  make 
one.  In  our  profession  it 's  the  first  requisite." 

"  But  where  ?  That 's  what  I  ask  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Rooth. 

"Why  not  here?  "  Sherringham  inquired. 

"  Oh,  here  !  "  And  the  good  lady  shook  her 
head,  with  a  world  of  suggestions. 

"  Come  and  live  in  London,  and  then  I  shall 
be  able  to  paint  your  daughter,"  Nick  Dormer 
interposed. 

"  Is  that  all  that  it  will  take,  my  dear  fellow  ?  " 
asked  Gabriel  Nash. 

"Ah,  London  is  full  of  memories,"  Mrs.  Rooth 
went  on.  "  My  father  had  a  great  house  there 
—  we  always  came  up.  But  all  that 's  over." 

"  Study  here,  and  go  to  London  to  appear," 
said  Peter  Sherringham,  feeling  frivolous  even  as 
he  spoke. 

"To  appear  in  French  ?  " 

"  No,  in  the  language  of  Shakespeare." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  139 

"  But  we  can't  study  that  here." 

"M.  Sherringham  means  that  he  will  give 
you  lessons,"  Madame  Carre  explained.  "  Let  me 
not  fail  to  say  it  —  he 's  an  excellent  critic." 

"How  do  you  know  that  —  you  who  are  per- 
fect ? "  asked  Sherringham  :  an  inquiry  to  which 
the  answer  was  forestalled  by  the  girl's  rousing 
herself  to  make  it  public  that  she  could  recite  the 
"  Nights  "  of  Alfred  de  Musset 

"  Diable !  "  said  the  actress,  "  that 's  more  than 
I  can  !  But  by  all  means  give  us  a  specimen." 

The  girl  again  placed  herself  in  position  and 
rolled  out  a  fragment  of  one  of  the  splendid  con- 
versations of  Musset 's  poet  with  his  muse  — 
rolled  it  loudly  and  proudly,  tossed  it  and  tumbled 
it  about  the  room.  Madame  Carre  watched  her  at 
first,  but  after  a  few  moments  she  shut  her  eyes, 
though  the  best  part  of  the  business  was  to  look. 
Sherringham  had  supposed  Miriam  was  abashed 
by  the  flatness  of  her  first  performance,  but  now 
he  perceived  that  she  could  not  have  been  con- 
scious of  this  ;  she  was  rather  exhilarated  and 
emboldened.  She  made  a  muddle  of  the  divine 
verses,  which,  in  spite  of  certain  sonorities  and 
cadences,  an  evident  effort  to  imitate  a  celebrated 
actress,  a  comrade  of  Madame  Carre,  whom  she 
had  heard  declaim  them,  she  produced  as  if  she 
had  but  a  dim  idea  of  their  meaning.  When  she 
had  finished,  Madame  Carre  passed  no  judg- 
ment ;  she  only  said  :  "  Perhaps  you  had  better 
say  something  English."  She  suggested  some 


140  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

little  piece  of  verse  —  some  fable,  if  there  were 
fables  in  English.  She  appeared  but  scantily  sur- 
prised to  hear  that  there  were  not  —  it  was  a 
language  of  which  one  expected  so  little.  Mrs. 
Rooth  said,  "  She  knows  her  Tennyson  by  heart. 
I  think  he's  more  profound  than  La  Fontaine  ;  " 
and  after  some  deliberation  and  delay  Miriam 
broke  into  "  TJie__L(ifca&£aters,"  from  which  she 
passed  directly,  almost  breathlessly,  to  "  Edward 
Gray."  Sherringham  had  by  this  time  heard  her 
make  four  different  attempts,  and  the  only  gen- 
eralization which  could  be  very  present  to  him 
was  that  she  uttered  these  dissimilar  composi- 
tions in  exactly  the  same  tone  —  a  solemn,  dron- 
ing, dragging  measure,  adopted  with  an  intention 
of  pathos,  a  crude  idea  of  "style."  It  was  fune- 
real, and  at  the  same  time  it  was  rough  and  child- 
ish. Sherringham  thought  her  English  perfor- 
mance less  futile  than  her  French,  but  he  could 
see  that  Madame  Carr6  listened  to  it  with  even 
less  pleasure.  In  the  way  the  girl  wailed  forth 
some  of  her  Tennysonian  lines  he  detected  a  pos- 
sibility of  a  thrill.  But  the  further  she  went,  the 
more  violently  she  acted  on  the  nerves  of  Mr. 
Gabriel  Nash  :  that  also  he  could  discover,  from 
the  way  this  gentleman  ended  by  slipping  dis- 
creetly to  the  window  and  leaning  there,  with  his 
head  out  and  his  back  to  the  exhibition.  He  had 
the  art  of  mute  expression  ;  his  attitude  said,  as 
clearly  as  possible,  "  No,  no,  you  can't  call  me 
either  ill-mannered  or  ill-natured.  I  'm  the  show- 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  141 

man  of  the  occasion,  moreover,  and  I  avert  my- 
self, leaving  you  to  judge.  If  there 's  a  thing  in 
life  I  hate,  it 's  this  idiotic  new  fashion  of  the 
drawing  -  room  recitation,  and  the  insufferable 
creatures  who  practice  it,  who  prevent  conversa- 
tion and  whom,  as  they  are  beneath  it,  you  can't 
punish  by  criticism.  Therefore  what  I  am  is  only 
too  magnanimous  —  bringing  these  benighted 
women  here,  paying  with  my  person,  stifling  my 
just  repugnance." 

At  the  same  time  that  Sherringham  pronounced 
privately  that  the  manner  in  which  Miss  Rooth 
had  acquitted  herself  offered  no  element  of  in- 
terest, he  remained  conscious  that  something  sur- 
mounted and  survived  her  failure,  something  that 
would  perhaps  be  worth  taking  hold  of.  It  was 
the  element  of  outline  and  attitude,  the  way  she 
stood,  the  way  she  turned  her  eyes,  her  head, 
and  moved  her  limbs.  These  things  held  the  at- 
tention ;  they  had  a  natural  felicity  and,  in  spite 
of  their  suggesting  too  much  the  school-girl  in 
the  tableau-vivant,  a  sort  of  grandeur.  Her  face, 
moreover,  grew  as  he  watched  it ;  something  del- 
icate dawned  in  it,  a  dim  promise  of  variety  and 
a  touching  plea  for  patience,  as  if  it  were  con- 
scious of  being  able  to  show  in  time  more  expres- 
sions than  the  simple  and  striking  gloom  which, 
as  yet,  had  mainly  graced  it.  In  short,  the  plastic 
quality  of  her  person  was  the  only  definite  sign 
of  a  vocation.  He  almost  hated  to  have  to  rec- 
ognize this;  he  had  seen  that  quality  so  often 


142  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

when  it  meant  nothing  at  all  that  he  had  come  at 
last  to  regard  it  as  almost  a  guarantee  of  incom- 
petence. He  knew  Madame  Carre"  valued  it,  by 
itself,  so  little  that  she  counted  it  out  in  measur- 
ing an  histrionic  nature ;  when  it  was  not  ac- 
companied with  other  properties  which  helped 
and  completed  it  she  was  near  considering  it  as 
a  positive  hindrance  to  success  —  success  of  the 
only  kind  that  she  esteemed.  Far  oftener  than 
he,  she  had  sat  in  judgment  on  young  women  for 
whom  hair  and  eyebrows  and  a  disposition  for 
the  statuesque  would  have  worked  the  miracle  of 
attenuating  their  stupidity  if  the  miracle  were 
workable.  But  that  particular  miracle  never  was. 
The  qualities  she  deemed  most  interesting  were 
not  the  gifts,  but  the  conquests —  the  effects  the 
actor  had  worked  hard  for,  had  wrested  by  un- 
wearying study.  Sherringham  remembered  to 
have  had,  in  the  early  part  of  their  acquaintance, 
a  friendly  dispute  with  her  on  this  subject ;  he 
having  been  moved  at  that  time  to  defend  the 
cause  of  the  gifts.  She  had  gone  so  far  as  to  say 
that  a  serious  comedian  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
them  —  ashamed  of  resting  his  case  on  them  ; 
and  when  Sherringham  had  cited  Mademoiselle 
Rachel  as  a  great  artist  whose  natural  endow- 
ment was  rich  and  who  had  owed  her  highest 
triumphs  to  it,  she  had  declared  that  Rachel  was 
the  very  instance  that  proved  her  point  —  a 
talent  embodying  one  or  two  primary  aids,  a 
voice  and  an  eye,  but  essentially  formed  by  work, 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  143 

unremitting  and  ferocious  work.  "  I  don't  care  a 
straw  for  your  handsome  girls,"  she  said  ;  "  but 
bring  me  one  who  is  ready  to  drudge  the  tenth 
part  of  the  way  Rachel  drudged,  and  I  '11  forgive 
her  her  beauty.  Of  course,  notez  bien,  Rachel 
was  n't  a  bete :  that 's  a  gift,  if  you  like  !  " 

Mrs.  Rooth,  who  was  evidently  very  proud  of 
the  figure  her  daughter  had  made,  appealed  to 
Madame  Carre",  rashly  and  serenely,  for  a  verdict ; 
but  fortunately  this  lady's  voluble  bonne  came 
rattling  in  at  the  same  moment  with  the  tea-tray. 
The  old  actress  busied  herself  in  dispensing  this 
refreshment,  an  hospitable  attention  to  her  Eng- 
lish visitors,  and  under  cover  of  the  diversion 
thus  obtained,  while  the  others  talked  together, 
Sherringham  said  to  his  hostess  :  "  Well,  is  there 
anything  in  her  ? " 

"  Nothing  that  I  can  see.  She 's  loud  and 
coarse." 

"  She 's  very  much  afraid  ;  you  must  allow  for 
that." 

"  Afraid  of  me,  immensely,  but  not  a  bit  afraid 
of  her  authors  —  nor  of  you!"  added  Madame 
Carre,  smiling. 

"Aren't  you  prejudiced  by  what  Mr.  Nash  has 
told  you  ? " 

"  Why  prejudiced  ?  He  only  told  me  she  was 
very  handsome." 

"  And  don't  you  think  she  is  ?" 

"  Admirable.  But  I  'm  not  a  photographer  nor 
a  dressmaker.  I  can't  do  anything  with  that." 


144  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  The  head  is  very  noble,"  said  Peter  Sh erring- 
ham.  "  And  the  voice,  when  she  spoke  English, 
had  some  sweet  tones." 

"  Ah,  your  English  —  possibly  !  All  I  can 
say  is  that  I  listened  to  her  conscientiously,  and 
I  did  n't  perceive  in  what  she  did  a  single  nuance, 
a  single  inflection  or  intention.  But  not  one,  man 
cher.  I  don't  think  she  's  intelligent." 

"  But  don't  they  often  seem  stupid  at  first  ? " 

"  Say  always  !  " 

"  Then  don't  some  succeed  —  even  when  they 
are  handsome  ?  " 

"  When  they  are  handsome  they  always  suc- 
ceed —  in  one  way  or  another." 

"  You  don't  understand  us  English,"  said  Peter 
Sherringham. 

Madame  Carr6  drank  her  tea ;  then  she  re- 
plied :  "  Marry  her,  my  son,  and  give  her  dia- 
monds. Make  her  an  ambassadress  ;  she  will  look 
very  well." 

"  She  interests  you  so  little  that  you  don't  care 
to  do  anything  for  her  ?  " 

"  To  do  anything  ?  " 

"To  give  her  a  few  lessons." 

The  old  actress  looked  at  him  a  moment ;  after 
which,  rising  from  her  place  near  the  table  on 
which  the  tea  had  been  served,  she  said  to  Miriam 
Rooth  :  "  My  dear  child,  I  give  my  voice  for  the 
sctne  anglais e.  You  did  the  English  things  best." 

"Did  I  do  them  well  ? "  asked  the  girl. 

"  You  have  a  great  deal  to  learn  ;  but  you  have 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  145 

force.  The  principal  things  sont  encore  &  dtgager, 
but  they  will  come.  You  must  work." 

"  I  think  she  has  ideas,"  said  Mrs.  Rooth. 

"  She  gets  them  from  you,"  Madame  Carre  re- 
plied. 

"  I  must  say,  if  it 's  to  be  our  theatre  I  'm  re- 
lieved. I  think  it 's  safer,"  the  good  lady  con- 
tinued. 

"  Ours  is  dangerous,  no  doubt." 

"You  mean  you  are  more  severe,"  said  the 
girl. 

"Your  mother  is  right,"  the  actress  smiled; 
"you  have  ideas." 

"  But  what  shall  we  do  then  —  how  shall  we 
proceed  ? "  Mrs.  Rooth  inquired. 

She  made  this  appeal,  plaintively  and  vaguely, 
to  the  three  gentlemen  ;  but  they  had  collected, 
a  few  steps  off,  and  were  talking  together,  so 
that  it  failed  to  reach  them. 

"  Work  —  work  —  work !  "  exclaimed  the  ac- 
tress. 

"  In  English  I  can  play  Shakespeare.  I  want 
to  play  Shakespeare,"  Miriam  remarked. 

"  That 's  fortunate,  as,  in  English,  you  have  n't 
any  one  else  to  play." 

"  But  he  's  so  great  —  and  he 's  so  pure  ! "  said 
Mrs.  Rooth. 

"That  also  seems  very  fortunate  for  you," 
Madame  Carr6  phrased. 

"  You  think  me  actually  pretty  bad,  don't  you  ?  " 
the  girl  demanded,  with  her  serious  face. 


146  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Mon  Dieu,  que  vous  dirai-je  ?  Of  course 
you  're  rough  ;  but  so  was  I,  at  your  age.  And 
if  you  find  your  voice  it  may  carry  you  far.  Be- 
sides, what  does  it  matter  what  I  think  ?  How 
can  I  judge  for  your  English  public  ?  " 

"  How  shall  I  find  my  voice  ? "  asked  Miriam 
Rooth. 

"By  trying.  II  n'y  a  que  $a.  Work  like  a 
horse,  night  and  day.  Besides,  M.  Sherringham, 
as  he  says,  will  help  you." 

Sherringham,  hearing  his  name,  turned  round, 
and  the  girl  appealed  to  him.  "  Will  you  help 
me,  really  ? " 

"To  find  her  voice,"  Madame  Carr6  interposed. 

"The  voice,  when  it 's  worth  anything,  comes 
from  the  heart ;  so  I  suppose  that 's  where  to 
look  for  it,"  Gabriel  Nash  suggested. 

"  Much  you  know  ;  you  have  n't  got  any  !  "  Mir- 
iam retorted,  with  the  first  scintillation  of  gayety 
she  had  shown  on  this  occasion. 

"  Any  voice,  my  child  ?  "  Mr.  Nash  inquired. 

"  Any  heart  —  or  any  manners  !  " 

Peter  Sherringham  made  the  secret  reflection 
that  he  liked  her  better  when  she  was  lugubrious  ; 
for  the  note  of  pertness  was  not  totally  absent 
from  her  mode  of  emitting  these  few  words.  He 
was  irritated,  moreover,  for  in  the  brief  confer- 
ence he  had  just  had  with  the  young  lady's  intro- 
ducer he  had  had  to  face  the  necessity  of  saying 
something  optimistic  about  her,  which  was  not 
particularly  easy.  Mr.  Nash  had  said  with  his 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  147 

bland  smile,  "And  what  impression  does  my 
young  friend  make  ?  "  to  which  it  appeared  to 
Sherringham  that  an  uncomfortable  consistency 
compelled  him  to  reply  that  there  was  evidently 
a  good  deal  in  her.  He  was  far  from  being  sure 
of  that ;  at  the  same  time,  the  young  lady,  both 
with  the  exaggerated  "points"  of  her  person  and 
the  poverty  of  her  instinct  of  expression,  consti- 
tuted a  kind  of  challenge  —  presented  herself  to 
him  as  a  subject  for  inquiry,  a  problem,  a  piece 
of  work,  an  explorable  country.  She  was  too  bad 
to  jump  at,  and  yet  she  was  too  individual  to  over- 
look, especially  when  she  rested  her  tragic  eyes 
on  him  with  the  appeal  of  her  deep  "  Really  ? " 
This  appeal  sounded  as  if  it  were  in  a  certain 
way  to  his  honour,  giving  him  a  chance  to  brave 
verisimilitude,  to  brave  ridicule  even,  a  little,  in 
order  to  show,  in  a  special  case,  what  he  had  al- 
ways maintained  in  general,  that  the  direction  of 
a  young  person's  studies  for  the  stage  may  be  an 
interest  of  as  high  an  order  as  any  other  artistic 
consideration. 

"  Mr.  Nash  has  rendered  us  the  great  service 
of  introducing  us  to  Madame  Carre,  and  I  'm  sure 
we  're  immensely  indebted  to  him,"  Mrs.  Rooth 
said  to  her  daughter,  with  an  air  affectionately 
corrective. 

"But  what  good  does  that  do  us?"  the  girl 
asked,  smiling  at  the  actress  and  gently  laying 
her  finger-tips  upon  her  hand.  "  Madame  Carre 
listens  to  me  with  adorable  patience,  and  then 


148  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE, 

sends  me  about  my  business  —  in  the  prettiest 
way  in  the  world." 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  are  not  so  rough ;  the 
tone  of  that  is  very  juste.  A  la  bonne  heure  ; 
work  —  work!  "the  actress  exclaimed.  "There 
was  an  inflection  there,  or  very  nearly.  Practice 
it  till  you've  got  it." 

"  Come  and  practice  it  to  me,  if  your  mother 
will  be  so  kind  as  to  bring  you,"  said  Peter  Sher- 
ringham. 

"  Do  you  give  lessons  —  do  you  understand  ?  " 
Miriam  asked. 

"  I  'm  an  old  play-goer,  and  I  have  an  un- 
bounded belief  in  my  own  judgment." 

" '  Old,'  sir,  is  too  much  to  say,"  Mrs.  Rooth 
remonstrated.  "  My  daughter  knows  your  high 
position,  but  she  is  very  direct.  You  will  always 
find  her  so.  Perhaps  you  '11  say  there  are  less 
honourable  faults.  We  '11  come  to  see  you  with 
pleasure.  Oh,  I  've  been  at  the  Embassy,  when 
I  was  her  age.  Therefore  why  should  n't  she  go 
to-day  ?  That  was  in  Lord  Davenant's  time." 

"  A  few  people  are  coming  to  tea  with  me  to- 
morrow. Perhaps  you  '11  come  then,  at  five 
o'clock." 

"  It  will  remind  me  of  the  dear  old  times,"  said 
Mrs.  Rooth. 

"Thank  you ;  I  '11  try  and  do  better  to-morrow," 
Miriam  remarked,  very  sweetly. 

"You  do  better  every  minute!"  Sherringham 
exclaimed,  looking  at  Madame  Carre*  in  emphasis 
of  this  declaration. 


THE    TRAGIC   MUSE.  149 

"  She  is  finding  her  voice,"  the  actress  cried. 

"She  is  finding  a  friend!"  Mrs.  Rooth 
amended. 

"  And  don't  forget,  when  you  come  to  London, 
my  hope  that  you  '11  come  and  see  me"  Nick 
Dormer  said  to  the  girl.  "  To  try  and  paint  you 
—  that  would  do  me  good  !  " 

"  She  is  finding  even  two,"  said  Madame 
Carre". 

"  It 's  to  make  up  for  one  I  've  lost ! "  And 
Miriam  looked  with  very  good  stage-scorn  at  Ga- 
briel Nash.  " It's  he  who  thinks  I  'm  bad." 

"  You  say  that  to  make  me  drive  you  home ; 
you  know  it  will,"  Nash  returned. 

"  We  '11  all  take  you  home  ;  why  not  ? "  Sher- 
ringham  asked. 

Madame  Carre  looked  at  the  handsome  girl, 
handsomer  than  ever  at  this  moment,  and  at  the 
three  young  men  who  had  taken  their  hats  and 
stood  ready  to  accompany  her.  A  deeper  ex- 
pression came  for  an  instant  into  her  hard,  bright 
eyes,  while  she  sighed,  "Ah,  la  jeunesse !  you  'd 
always  have  that,  my  child,  if  you  were  the  great- 
est goose  on  earth  !  " 


VIII. 

AT  Peter  Sherringham's,  the  next  day,  Miriam 
Rooth  had  so  evidently  come  with  the  expecta- 
tion of  "saying"  something  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble such  a  patron  of  the  drama  should  forbear  to 
invite  her,  little  as  the  exhibition  at  Madame 
Carre's  could  have  contributed  to  render  the  in- 
vitation prompt.  His  curiosity  had  been  more 
appeased  than  stimulated,  but  he  felt  none  the 
less  that  he  had  "taken  up"  the  dark-browed  girl 
and  her  reminiscential  mother,  and  must  face  the 
immediate  consequences  of  the  act.  This  respon- 
sibility weighed  upon  him  during  the  twenty- 
four  hours  that  followed  the  ultimate  dispersal  of 
the  little  party  at  the  door  of  the  Hotel  de  la 
Garonne. 

On  quitting  Madame  Carry's  the  two  ladies 
had  gracefully  declined  Mr.  Nash's  offered  cab 
and  had  taken  their  way  homeward  on  foot,  with 
the  gentlemen  in  attendance.  The  streets  of 
Paris  at  that  hour  were  bright  and  episodical,  and 
Sherringham  trod  them  good-humoredly  enough, 
and  not  too  fast,  leaning  a  little  to  talk  to  the 
young  lady  as  he  went.  Their  pace  was  regulated 
by  her  mother's,  who  walked  in  advance,  on  the 
arm  of  Gabriel  Nash  (Nick  Dormer  was  on  her 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  \$\ 

other  side),  in  refined  deprecation.  Her  sloping 
back  was  before  them,  exempt  from  retentive 
stiffness  in  spite  of  her  rigid  principles,  with  the 
little  drama  of  her  lost  and  recovered  shawl  per- 
petually going  on. 

Sherringham  said  nothing  to  the  girl  about 
her  performance  or  her  powers  ;  their  talk  was 
only  of  her  manner  of  life  with  her  mother  — 
their  travels,  their  pensions,  their  economies, 
their  want  of  a  home,  the  many  cities  she  knew 
well,  the  foreign  tongues  and  the  wide  view  of 
the  world  she  had  acquired.  He  guessed  easily 
enough  the  dolorous  type  of  exile  of  the  two  la- 
dies, wanderers  in  search  of  Continental  cheap- 
ness, inured  to  queer  contacts  and  compromises, 
"remarkably  well  connected"  in  England,  but 
going  out  for  their  meals.  The  girl  was  but  in- 
directly communicative,  not,  apparently,  from  any 
intention  of  concealment,  but  from  the  habit  of 
associating  with  people  whom  she  did  n't  honour 
with  her  confidence.  She  was  fragmentary  and 
abrupt,  as  well  as  not  in  the  least  shy,  subdued  to 
dread  of  Madame  Carre"  as  she  had  been  for  the 
time.  She  gave  Sherringham  a  reason  for  this 
fear,  and  he  thought  her  reason  innocently  pre- 
tentious. "  She  admired  a  great  artist  more  than 
anything  in  the  world ;  and  in  the  presence  of 
art,  of  great  art,  her  heart  beat  so  fast."  Her 
manners  were  not  perfect,  and  the  friction  of  a 
varied  experience  had  rather  roughened  than 
smoothed  her.  She  said  nothing  that  showed 


152  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

that  she  was  clever,  though  he  guessed  that  this 
was  the  intention  of  two  or  three  of  her  remarks  ; 
but  he  parted  from  her  with  the  suspicion  that 
she  was,  according  to  the  contemporary  French 
phrase,  a  "nature." 

The  Hotel  de  la  Garonne  was  in  a  small,  un- 
renovated  street,  in  which  the  cobble-stones  of 
old  Paris  still  flourished,  lying  between  the  Av- 
enue de  1' Opera  and  the  Place  de  la  Bourse. 
Sherringham  had  occasionally  passed  through 
this  dim  by-way,  but  he  had  never  noticed  the 
tall,  stale  maison  meubtte,  whose  aspect,  that  of  a 
third-rate  provincial  inn,  was  an  illustration  of 
Mrs.  Rooth's  shrunken  standard. 

"  We  would  ask  you  to  come  up,  but  it 's  quite 
at  the  top,  and  we  have  n't  a  sitting-room,"  the 
poor  lady  bravely  explained.  "  We  had  to  receive 
Mr.  Nash  at  a  cafeV' 

Nick  Dormer  declared  that  he  liked  cafes,  and 
Miriam,  looking  at  his  cousin,  dropped,  with  a 
flash  of  passion,  the  demand :  "  Do  you  wonder 
that  I  should  want  to  do  something,  so  that  we 
can  stop  living  like  pigs  ?  " 

Sherringham  recognized  eventually,  the  next 
day,  that  though  it  might  be  rather  painful  to 
listen  to  her  it  was  better  to  make  her  recite 
than  to  let  her  do  nothing,  so  effectually  did  the 
presence  of  his  sister  and  that  of  Lady  Agnes, 
and  even  of  Grace  and  Biddy,  appear,  by  a  sort 
of  tacit  opposition,  to  deprive  hers,  ornamental  as 
it  was,  of  a  reason.  He  had  only  to  see  them  all 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  153 

together  to  perceive  that  she  could  n't  pass  for 
having  come  to  "  meet "  them  —  even  her  mo- 
ther's insinuating  gentility  failed  to  put  the  occa- 
sion on  that  footing  —  and  that  she  must  there- 
fore be  assumed  to  have  been  brought  to  show 
them  something.  She  was  not  subdued,  not  col- 
orless enough  to  sit  there  for  nothing,  or  even 
for  conversation  (the  sort  of  conversation  that 
was  likely  to  come  off),  so  that  it  was  inevitable 
to  treat  her  position  as  connected  with  the  prin- 
cipal place  on  the  carpet,  with  silence  and  atten- 
tion and  the  pulling  together  of  chairs.  Even 
when  so  established  it  struck  him  at  first  as 
precarious,  in  the  light,  or  the  darkness,  of  the 
inexpressive  faces  of  the  other  ladies,  sitting  in 
couples  and  rows  on  sofas  (there  were  several  in 
addition  to  Julia  and  the  Dormers ;  mainly  the 
wives,  with  their  husbands,  of  Sherringham's  fel- 
low-secretaries), scarcely  one  of  whom  he  felt 
that  he  might  count  upon  to  say  something  gush- 
ing when  the  girl  should  have  finished. 

Miss  Rooth  gave  a  representation  of  Juliet 
drinking  her  potion,  according  to  the  system,  as 
her  mother  explained,  of  the  famous  Signer  Rug- 
gieri  —  a  scene  of  high,  fierce  sound,  of  many 
cries  and  contortions  :  she  shook  her  hair  (which 
proved  magnificent)  half  down  before  the  perfor- 
mance was  over.  Then  she  declaimed  several 
short  poems  by  Victor  Hugo,  selected,  among 
many  hundred,  by  Mrs.  Rooth,  as  the  good  lady 
was  careful  to  make  known.  After  this  she 


154  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

jumped  to  the  American  lyre,  regaling  the  com- 
pany with  specimens,  both  familiar  and  fresh,  of 
Longfellow,  Lowell,  Whittier,  Holmes,  and  of 
two  or  three  poetesses  revealed  to  Sherringham 
on  this  occasion.  She  flowed  so  copiously,  keep- 
ing the  floor  and  rejoicing  visibly  in  her  oppor- 
tunity, that  Sherringham  was  mainly  occupied 
with  wondering  how  he  could  make  her  leave  off. 
He  was  surprised  at  the  extent  of  her  repertory, 
which,  in  view  of  the  circumstance  that  she  could 
never  have  received  much  encouragement  —  it 
must  have  come  mainly  from  her  mother,  and  he 
did  n't  believe  in  Signer  Ruggieri  —  denoted  a 
very  stiff  ambition  and  a  kind  of  illuminated  per- 
severance. It  was  her  mother  who  checked  her 
at  last,  and  he  found  himself  suspecting  that  Ga- 
briel Nash  had  intimated  to  the  old  woman  that 
interference  was  necessary.  For  himself,  he  was 
chiefly  glad  that  Madame  Carre  was  not  there. 
It  was  present  to  him  that  she  would  have 
deemed  the  exhibition,  with  its  badness,  its  assur- 
ance, the  absence  of  criticism,  almost  indecent. 

His  only  new  impression  of  the  girl  was  that 
of  this  same  high  assurance  —  her  coolness,  her 
complacency,  her  eagerness  to  go  on.  She  had 
been  deadly  afraid  of  the  old  actress,  but  she  was 
not  a  bit  afraid  of  a  cluster  oifemmes  dn  monde, 
of  Julia,  of  Lady  Agnes,  of  the  smart  women  of 
the  Embassy.  It  was  positively  these  personages 
who  were  rather  frightened  ;  there  was  certainly 
a  moment  when  even  Julia  was  scared,  for  the 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  155 

first  time  that  he  had  ever  seen  her.  The  space 
was  too  small ;  the  cries,  the  rushes  of  the  di- 
sheveled girl  were  too  near.  Lady  Agnes,  much 
of  the  time,  wore  the  countenance  she  might 
have  worn  at  the  theatre  during  a  play  in  which 
pistols  were  fired ;  and  indeed  the  manner  of  the 
young  reciter  had  become  more  spasmodic,  more 
explosive.  It  appeared,  however,  that  the  com- 
pany in  general  thought  her  very  clever  and  suc- 
cessful ;  which  showed,  to  Sherringham's  sense, 
how  little  they  understood  the  matter.  Poor 
Biddy  was  immensely  struck,  and  grew  flushed 
and  absorbed  in  proportion  as  Miriam,  at  her  best 
moments,  became  pale  and  fatal.  It  was  she  who 
spoke  to  her  first,  after  it  was  agreed  that  they 
had  better  not  fatigue  her  any  more ;  she  ad- 
vanced a  few  steps,  happening  to  be  near  her, 
murmuring,  "Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you  so  much. 
I  never  saw  anything  so  beautiful,  so  grand." 

She  looked  very  red  and  very  pretty  as  she 
said  this.  Peter  Sherringham  liked  her  enough 
to  notice  and  to  like  her  better  when  she  looked 
prettier  than  usual.  As  he  turned  away  he  heard 
Miriam  answer,  with  rather  an  ungracious  irrele- 
vance :  "  I  have  seen  you  before,  two  days  ago, 
at  the  Salon,  with  Mr.  Dormer.  Yes,  I  know 
he  's  your  brother.  I  have  made  his  acquaintance 
since.  He  wants  to  paint  my  portrait.  Do  you 
think  he  '11  do  it  well  ? "  He  was  afraid  Miriam 
was  something  of  a  brute,  and  also  somewhat 
grossly  vain.  This  impression  would  perhaps 


156  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

have  been  confirmed  if  a  part  of  the  rest  of  the 
short  conversation  of  the  two  girls  had  reached 
his  ear.  Biddy  ventured  to  remark  that  she  her- 
self had  studied  modeling  a  little  and  that  she 
could  understand  how  any  artist  would  think 
Miss  Rooth  a  splendid  subject.  If,  indeed,  she 
could  attempt  her  head,  that  would  be  a  chance 
to  do  something. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Miriam,  with  a  laugh.  "  I 
think  I  had  rather  not  passer  par  toute  la  famille  !" 
Then  she  added,  "  If  your  brother 's  an  artist,  I 
don't  understand  how  he 'sin  Parliament." 

"  Oh,  he  is  n't  in  Parliament  now  ;  we  only 
hope  he  will  be." 

"  Oh,  I  see." 

"  And  he  is  n't  an  artist,  either,"  Biddy  felt 
herself  conscientiously  bound  to  subjoin. 

"Then  he  isn't  anything,"  said  Miss  Rooth. 

"Well — he's  immensely  clever." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  Miss  Rooth  again  replied.  "Mr. 
Nash  has  puffed  him  up  so." 

"  I  don't  know  Mr.  Nash,"  said  Biddy,  guilty 
of  a  little  dryness,  and  also  of  a  little  misrepre- 
sentation, and  feeling  rather  snubbed. 

"  Well,  you  need  n't  wish  to." 

Biddy  stood  with  her  a  moment  longer,  still 
looking  at  her  and  not  knowing  what  to  say  next, 
but  not  finding  her  any  less  handsome  because  she 
had  such  odd  manners.  Biddy  had  an  ingenious 
little  mind,  which  always  tried  as  much  as  pos- 
sible to  keep  different  things  separate.  It  was 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  157 

pervaded  now  by  the  observation,  made  with  a 
certain  relief,  that  if  the  girl  spoke  to  her  with 
such  unexpected  familiarity  of  Nick,  she  said 
nothing  at  all  about  Peter.  Two  gentlemen  came 
up,  two  of  Peter's  friends,  and  made  speeches  to 
Miss  Rooth  of  the  kind,  Biddy  supposed,  that 
people  learned  to  make  in  Paris.  It  was  also 
doubtless  in  Paris,  the  girl  privately  reasoned, 
that  they  learned  to  listen  to  them  as  this  strik- 
ing performer  listened.  She  received  their  ad- 
vances very  differently  from  the  way  she  had  re- 
ceived Biddy's.  Sherringham  noticed  his  young 
kinswoman  turn  away,  still  blushing,  to  go  and 
sit  near  her  mother  again,  leaving  Miriam  engaged 
with  the  two  men.  It  appeared  to  have  come 
over  Biddy  that  for  a  moment  she  had  been 
strangely  spontaneous  and  bold  and  had  paid  a 
little  of  the  penalty.  The  seat  next  her  mother 
was  occupied  by  Mrs.  Rooth,  toward  whom  Lady 
Agnes's  head  had  inclined  itself  with  a  preoccu- 
pied air  of  benevolence.  He  had  an  idea  that 
Mrs.  Rooth  was  telling  her  about  the  Neville- 
Nugents  of  Castle  Nugent,  and  that  Lady  Agnes 
was  thinking  it  odd  she  never  had  heard  of  them. 
He  said  to  himself  that  Biddy  was  generous.  She 
had  urged  Julia  to  come,  in  order  that  they  might 
see  how  bad  the  strange  young  woman  would  be ; 
but  now  that  she  turned  out  so  dazzling  she  for- 
got this  calculation  and  rejoiced  in  what  she  in- 
nocently supposed  to  be  her  triumph.  She  kept 
away  from  Julia,  however ;  she  did  n't  even  look 


158  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

at  her  to  invite  her  also  to  confess  that,  in  vulgar 
parlance,  they  had  been  sold.  He  himself  spoke 
to  his  sister,  who  was  leaning  back,  in  rather  a 
detached  way,  in  the  corner  of  a  sofa,  saying 
something  which  led  her  to  remark  in  reply,  "  Ah, 
I  dare  say  it 's  extremely  fine,  but  I  don't  care  for 
tragedy  when  it  treads  on  one's  toes.  She's  like 
a  cow  who  has  kicked  over  the  milking-pail.  She 
ought  to  be  tied  up." 

"  My  poor  Julia,  it  is  n't  extremely  fine ;  it 
is  n't  fine  at  all,"  Sherringham  rejoined,  with  some 
irritation. 

"Excuse  me.  I  thought  that  was  why  you  in- 
vited us." 

"I  thought  she  was  different,"  Sherringham 
said. 

"  Ah,  if  you  don't  care  for  her,  so  much  the 
better.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  you 
make  too  much  of  those  people." 

"  Oh,  I  do  care  for  her  in  a  way,  too.  She 's 
interesting."  His  sister  gave  him  a  momentary 
mystified  glance,  and  he  added,  "  And  she's  aw- 
ful!" He  felt  stupidly  annoyed,  and  he  was 
ashamed  of  his  annoyance,  for  he  could  have  as- 
signed no  reason  for  it.  It  did  n't  make  it  less, 
for  the  moment,  to  see  Gabriel  Nash  approach 
Mrs.  Dallow,  introduced  by  Nick  Dormer.  He 
gave  place  to  the  two  young  men  with  a  certain 
alacrity,  for  he  had  a  sense  of  being  put  in  the 
wrong,  in  respect  to  the  heroine  of  the  occasion, 
by  Nash's  very  presence.  He  remembered  that 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  159 

it  had  been  a  part  of  their  bargain,  as  it  were, 
that  he  should  present  that  gentleman  to  his 
sister.  He  was  not  sorry  to  be  relieved  of  the 
office  by  Nick,  and  he  even,  tacitly  and  ironically, 
wished  his  cousin's  friend  joy  of  a  colloquy  with 
Mrs.  Dallow.  Sherringham's  life  was  spent  with 
people,  he  was  used  to  people,  and  both  as  a  host 
and  as  a  guest  he  carried  them,  in  general,  lightly. 
He  could  observe,  especially  in  the  former  capa- 
city, without  uneasiness,  take  the  temperature 
without  anxiety.  But  at  present  his  company 
oppressed  him ;  he  felt  himself  nervous,  which 
was  the  thing  in  the  world  that  he  had  always 
held  to  be  least  an  honour  to  a  gentleman  dedi- 
cated to  diplomacy.  He  was  vexed  with  the  lev- 
ity in  himself  which  had  made  him  call  them  to- 
gether on  so  poor  a  pretext,  and  yet  he  was  vexed 
with  the  stupidity  in  them  which  made  them 
think,  as  they  evidently  did,  that  the  pretext  was 
sufficient.  He  inwardly  groaned  at  the  precipi- 
tancy with  which  he  had  saddled  himself  with  the 
Tragic  Muse  (a  tragic  muse  who  was  noisy  and 
pert),  and  yet  he  wished  his  visitors  would  go 
away  and  leave  him  alone  with  her. 

Nick  Dormer  said  to  Mrs.  Dallow  that  he 
wanted  her  to  know  an  old  friend  of  his,  one  of 
the  cleverest  men  he  knew  ;  and  he  added  the 
hope  that  she  would  be  gentle  and  encouraging 
with  him :  he  was  so  timid  and  so  easily  discon- 
certed. 

Gabriel  Nash  dropped  into  a  chair  by  the  arm 


160  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

of  Julia's  sofa,  Nick  Dormer  went  away,  and  Mrs. 
Dallow  turned  her  glance  upon  her  new  acquaint- 
ance without  a  perceptible  change  of  position. 
Then  she  emitted,  with  rapidity,  the  remark, 
"  It 's  very  awkward  when  people  are  told  one  is 
clever." 

"It's  awkward  if  one  isn't,"  said  Mr.  Nash, 
smiling. 

"  Yes,  but  so  few  people  are  —  enough  to  be 
talked  about." 

"  Is  n't  that  just  the  reason  why  such  a  matter, 
such  an  exception,  ought  to  be  mentioned  to 
them  ?  "  asked  Gabriel  Nash.  "  They  might  n't 
find  it  out  for  themselves.  Of  course,  however, 
as  you  say,  there  ought  to  be  a  certainty ;  then 
they  are  surer  to  know  it.  Dormer 's  a  dear  fel- 
low, but  he's  rash  and  superficial." 

Mrs.  Dallow  at  this  turned  her  glance  a  second 
time  upon  her  interlocutor ;  but  during  the  rest 
of  the  conversation  she  rarely  repeated  the  move- 
ment. If  she  liked  Nick  Dormer  extremely  (and 
it  may  without  further  delay  be  communicated  to 
the  reader  that  she  did),  her  liking  was  of  a  kind 
that  opposed  no  difficulty  whatever  to  her  not 
liking  (in  case  of  such  a  complication)  a  person 
attached  or  otherwise  belonging  to  him.  It  was 
not  in  her  nature  to  extend  tolerances  to  others 
for  the  sake  of  an  individual  she  loved :  the  toler- 
ance was  usually  consumed  in  the  loving ;  there 
was  nothing  left  over.  If  the  affection  that  iso- 
lates and  simplifies  its  object  may  be  distin- 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  l6l 

guished  from  the  affection  that  seeks  communica- 
tions and  contacts  for  it,  Julia  Dallow's  belonged 
wholly  to  the  former  class.  She  was  not  so  much 
jealous  as  rigidly  direct.  She  desired  no  experi 
ence  for  the  familiar  and  yet  partly  mysterious 
kinsman  in  whom  she  took  an  interest  that  she 
would  not  have  desired  for  herself ;  and,  indeed, 
the  cause  of  her  interest  in  him  was  partly  the 
vision  of  his  helping  her  to  the  particular  emo- 
tion that  she  did  desire  —  the  emotion  of  great 
affairs  and  of  public  action.  To  have  such  ambi- 
tions for  him  appeared  to  her  the  greatest  honour 
she  could  do  him  ;  her  conscience  was  in  it  as 
well  as  her  inclination,  and  her  scheme,  in  her 
conception,  was  noble  enough  to  varnish  over 
any  disdain  she  might  feel  for  forces  drawing  him 
another  way.  She  had  a  prejudice,  in  general, 
against  his  connections,  a  suspicion  of  them  and 
a  supply  of  unwrought  contempt  ready  for  them. 
It  was  a  singular  circumstance  that  she  was 
skeptical  even  when,  knowing  her  as  well  as  he 
did,  he  thought  them  worth  recommending  to 
her  :  the  recommendation,  indeed,  inveterately 
confirmed  the  suspicion. 

This  was  a  law  from  which  Gabriel  Nash  was 
condemned  to  suffer,  if  suffering  could  on  any 
occasion  be  predicated  of  Gabriel  Nash.  His 
pretension  was,  in  truth,  that  he  had  purged  his 
life  of  such  incongruities,  though  probably  he 
would  have  admitted  that  if  a  sore  spot  remained 
the  hand  of  a  woman  would  be  sure  to  touch  it. 


1 62  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

In  dining  with  her  brother  and  with  the  Dormers, 
two  evenings  before,  Mrs.  Dallow  had  been  moved 
to  exclaim  that  Peter  and  Nick  knew  the  most 
extraordinary  people.  As  regards  Peter  the  atti- 
tudinizing girl  and  her  mother  now  pointed  that 
moral  with  sufficient  vividness  ;  so  that  there  was 
little  arrogance  in  taking  a  similar  quality  for 
granted  in  the  conceited  man  at  her  elbow,  who 
sat  there  as  if  he  would  be  capable,  from  one  mo- 
ment to  another,  of  leaning  over  the  arm  of  her 
sofa.  She  had  not  the  slightest  wish  to  talk  with 
him  about  himself,  and  was  afraid,  for  an  instant, 
that  he  was  on  the  point  of  passing  from  the 
chapter  of  his  cleverness  to  that  of  his  timidity. 
It  was  a  false  alarm,  however,  for  instead  of  this 
he  said  something  about  the  pleasures  of  the 
monologue,  as  the  distraction  that  had  just  been 
offered  was  called  by  the  French.  He  intimated 
that  in  his  opinion  these  pleasures  were  mainly 
for  the  performers.  They  had  all,  at  any  rate, 
given  Miss  Rooth  a  charming  afternoon  ;  that, 
of  course,  was  what  Mrs.  Dallow's  kind  brother 
had  mainly  intended  in  arranging  the  little  party. 
(Mrs.  Dallow  hated  to  hear  him  call  her  brother 
"  kind  :  "  the  term  seemed  offensively  patroniz- 
ing.) But  he  himself,  he  related,  was  now  con- 
stantly employed  in  the  same  beneficence,  listen- 
ing, two  thirds  of  his  time,  to  "  intonations  "  and 
shrieks.  She  had  doubtless  observed  it  herself, 
how  the  great  current  of  the  age,  the  adoration 
of  the  mime,  was  almost  too  strong  for  any  indi- 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  163 

vidual  ;  how  it  swept  one  along  and  hurled  one 
against  the  rocks.  As  she  made  no  response  to 
this  proposition  Gabriel  Nash  asked  her  if  she 
had  not  been  struck  with  the  main  sign  of  the 
time,  the  preponderance  of  the  mountebank,  the 
glory  and  renown,  the  personal  favor,  that  he  en- 
joyed. Hadn't  she  noticed  what  an  immense 
part  of  the  public  attention  he  held,  in  London 
at  least  ?  For  in  Paris  society  was  not  so  per- 
vaded with  him,  and  the  women  of  the  profession, 
in  particular,  were  not  in  every  drawing-room. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Mrs.  Dallow 
said.  "  I  know  nothing  of  any  such  people." 

"  Are  n't  they  under  your  feet  wherever  you 
turn  —  their  performances,  their  portraits,  their 
speeches,  their  autobiographies,  their  names,  their 
manners,  their  ugly  mugs,  as  the  people  say,  and 
their  idiotic  pretensions  ?  * 

"  I  dare  say  it  depends  on  the  places  one  goes 
to.  If  they  're  everywhere  "  —  and  Mrs.  Dallow 
paused  a  moment  —  "I  don't  go  everywhere." 

"  I  don't  go  anywhere,  but  they  mount  on  my 
back,  at  home,  like  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea.  Just 
observe  a  little  when  you  return  to  London," 
Nash  continued,  with  friendly  instructiveness. 
]\Irs.  Dallow  got  up  at  this  —  she  didn't  like  re- 
ceiving directions  ;  but  no  other  corner  of  the 
loom  appeared  to  offer  her  any  particular  reason 
for  crossing  to  it :  she  never  did  such  a  thing 
without  a  great  inducement.  So  she  remained 
standing  there,  as  if  she  were  quitting  the  place 


1 64  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

in  a  moment,  which  indeed  she  now  determined 
to  do ;  and  her  interlocutor,  rising  also,  lingered 
beside  her,  unencouraged  but  unperturbed.  He 
went  on  to  remark  that  Mr.  Sherringham  was 
quite  right  to  offer  Miss  Rooth  an  afternoon's 
sport ;  she  deserved  it  as  a  fine,  brave,  amiable 
girl.  She  was  highly  educated,  knew  a  dozen 
languages,  was  of  illustrious  lineage,  and  was  im- 
mensely particular. 

"  Immensely  particular  ?  "  Mrs.  Dallow  re- 
peated. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  say  that  her  mother  is,  on 
her  behalf.  Particular  about  the  sort  of  people 
they  meet  —  the  tone,  the  standard.  I  'm  bound 
to  say,  they  're  like  you  :  they  don't  go  every- 
where. That  spirit  is  meritorious  ;  it  should  be 
recognized  and  rewarded." 

Mrs.  Dallow  said  nothing  for  a  moment ;  she 
looked  vaguely  round  the  room,  but  not  at  Miriam 
Rooth.  Nevertheless  she  presently  dropped,  in 
allusion  to  her,  the  words,  "  She 's  dreadfully 
vulgar." 

"  Ah,  don't  say  that  to  my  friend  Dormer  !  " 
Gabriel  Nash  exclaimed. 

"  Are  you  and  he  such  great  friends  ? "  Mrs. 
Dallow  asked,  looking  at  him. 

"  Great  enough  to  make  me  hope  we  shall  be 
greater." 

Again,  for  a  moment,  she  said  nothing ;  then 
she  went  on  — 

"  Why  should  n't  I  say  to  him  that  she  's  vul- 
gar ? " 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  1 6$ 

"  Because  he  admires  her  so  much  ;  he  wants 
to  paint  her." 

"  To  paint  her  ?  " 

"  To  paint  her  portrait." 

"  Oh,  I  see.     I  dare  say  she  'd  do  for  that." 

Gabriel  Nash  laughed  gayly.  "  If  that 's  your 
opinion  of  her,  you  are  not  very  complimentary 
to  the  art  he  aspires  to  practice." 

"  He  aspires  to  practice  ? "  Mrs.  Dallow  re- 
peated. 

"  Have  n't  you  talked  with  him  about  it  ?  Ah, 
you  must  keep  him  up  to  it ! " 

Julia  Dallow  was  conscious,  for  a  moment,  of 
looking  uncomfortable ;  but  it  relieved  her  to 
demand  of  her  neighbor,  in  a  certain  tone,  "  Are 
you  an  artist  ?  " 

"  I  try  to  be,"  Nash  replied,  smiling ;  "  but  I 
work  in  such  a  difficult  material." 

He  spoke  this  with  such  a  clever  suggestion 
of  unexpected  reference  that,  in  spite  of  herself, 
Mrs.  Dallow  said  after  him  — 

"Difficult  material?" 

"  I  work  in  life  ! " 

At  this  Mrs.  Dallow  turned  away,  leaving  Nash 
the  impression  that  she  probably  misunderstood 
his  speech,  thinking  he  meant  that  he  drew  from 
the  living  model,  or  some  such  platitude  :  as  if 
there  could  have  been  any  likelihood  that  he 
drew  from  the  dead  one.  This,  indeed,  would 
not  fully  have  explained  the  abruptness  with 
which  she  dropped  their  conversation.  Gabriel 


1 66  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

Nash,  however,  was  used  to  sudden  collapses,  and 
even  to  sudden  ruptures,  on  the  part  of  his  in- 
terlocutors, and  no  man  had  more  the  secret  of 
remaining  gracefully  with  his  ideas  on  his  hands. 
He  saw  Mrs.  Dallow  approach  Nick  Dormer,  who 
was  talking  with  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  Em- 
bassy, and  apparently  signify  to  him  that  she 
wished  to  speak  to  him.  He  got  up,  they  had 
a  minute's  conversation,  and  then  he  turned  and 
took  leave  of  his  fellow-visitors.  Mrs.  Dallow 
said  a  word  to  her  brother,  Dormer  joined  her, 
and  then  they  came  together  to  the  door.  In 
this  movement  they  had  to  pass  near  Nash,  and 
it  gave  her  an  opportunity  to  nod  good-by  to  him, 
which  he  was  by  no  means  sure  she  would  have 
done  if  Nick  had  not  been  with  her.  The  young 
man  stopped  a  moment ;  he  said  to  Nash  :  "  I 
should  like  to  see  you  this  evening,  late ;  you 
must  meet  me  somewhere." 

"  We  '11  take  a  walk  —  I  should  like  that," 
Nash  replied.  "  I  shall  smoke  a  cigar  at  the  caf6 
on  the  corner  of  the  Place  de  1'Opera ;  you  '11 
find  me  there."  Gabriel  prepared  to  compass  his 
own  departure,  but  before  doing  so  he  addressed 
himself  to  the  duty  of  saying  a  few  words  of 
civility  to  Lady  Agnes.  This  proved  difficult, 
for  on  one  side  she  was  defended  by  the  wall  of 
the  room  and  on  the  other  rendered  inaccessible 
by  Miriam's  mother,  who  clung  to  her  with  a 
quickly-rooted  fidelity,  showing  no  symptom  of 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE,  l6/ 

desistance.  Gabriel  compromised  on  her  daughter 
Grace,  who  said  to  him  : 

"  You  were  talking  with  my  cousin,  Mrs.  Dai- 
low." 

"  To  her  rather  than  with  her,"  Nash  smiled. 

"  Ah,  she 's  very  charming,"  said  Grace. 

"She's  very  beautiful,"  Nash  rejoined. 

"  And  very  clever,"  Miss  Dormer  continued. 

"Very,  very  intelligent."  His  conversation 
with  the  young  lady  went  little  further  than  this, 
and  he  presently  took  leave  of  Peter  Sherring- 
ham  ;  remarking  to  him,  as  he  shook  hands,  that 
he  was  very  sorry  for  him.  But  he  had  courted 
his  fate. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  my  fate  ?  "  Sherring- 
ham  asked. 

"  You  've  got  them  for  life." 

"  Why  for  life,  when  I  now  lucidly  and  coura- 
geously recognize  that  she  is  n't  good  ?  " 

"  Ah,  but  she  '11  become  so,"  said  '  Gabriel 
Nash. 

"  Do  you  think  that  ?  "  Sherringham  inquired, 
with  a  candor  which  made  his  visitors  laugh. 

"  You  will  —  that 's  more  to  the  purpose !  " 
Gabriel  exclaimed,  as  he  went  away. 

Ten  minutes  later  Lady  Agnes  substituted  a 
general  vague  assent  for  all  further  particular 
ones,  and  withdrew  from  Mrs.  Rooth,  and  from 
the  rest  of  the  company,  with  her  daughters. 
Peter  had  had  very  little  talk  with  Biddy,  but  the 


1 68  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE, 

girl  kept  her  disappointment  out  of  her  pretty 
eyes  and  said  to  him  : 

"  You  told  us  she  did  n't  know  how  —  but  she 
does  ! "  There  was  no  suggestion  of  disappoint- 
ment in  this. 

Sherringham  held  her  hand  a  moment.  "  Ah, 
it's  you  who  know  how,  dear  Biddy!"  he  an- 
swered ;  and  he  was  conscious  that  if  the  occa- 
sion had  been  more  private  he  would  have  law- 
fully kissed  her. 

Presently  three  others  of  his  guests  departed, 
and  Mr.  Nash's  assurance  that  he  had  them  for 
life  recurred  to  him  as  he  observed  that  Mrs. 
Rooth  and  her  daughter  quite  failed  to  profit  by 
so  many  examples.  The  Lovicks  remained  —  a 
colleague  and  his  sociable  wife  —  and  Peter  gave 
them  a  hint  that  they  were  not  to  leave  him  ab- 
solutely alone  with  the  two  ladies.  Miriam  quit- 
ted Mrs.  Lovick,  who  had  attempted,  with  no 
great  subtlety,  to  engage  her,  and  came  up  to 
Sherringham  as  if  she  suspected  him  of  a  design 
of  stealing  from  the  room  and  had  the  idea  of 
preventing  it. 

"  I  want  some  more  tea  :  will  you  give  me  some 
more  ?  I  feel  quite  faint.  You  don't  seem  to 
suspect  how  that  sort  of  thing  takes  it  out  of 
you." 

Sherringham  apologized,  extravagantly,  for  not 
having  seen  that  she  had  the  proper  quantity  of 
refreshment,  and  took  her  to  the  round  table,  in 
a  corner,  on  which  the  little  collation  had  been 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  169 

served.  He  poured  out  tea  for  her,  and  pressed 
bread  and  butter  on  her  and  petits  fours,  of  all 
which  she  profusely  and  methodically  partook.  It 
was  late ;  the  afternoon  had  faded  and  a  lamp  had 
been  brought  in,  the  wide  shade  of  which  shed  a 
fair  glow  upon  the  tea-service,  the  little  plates  of 
comestibles.  The  Lovicks  sat  with  Mrs.  Rooth  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  the  girl  stood  at  the 
table,  drinking  her  tea  and  eating  her  bread  and 
butter.  She  consumed  these  articles  so  freely 
that  he  wondered  if  she  had  been  in  serious  want 
of  food  —  if  they  were  so  poor  as  to  have  to  count 
with  that  sort  of  privation.  This  supposition  was 
softening,  but  still  not  so  much  so  as  to  make 
him  ask  her  to  sit  down.  She  appeared  indeed 
to  prefer  to  stand  :  she  looked  better  so,  as  if  the 
freedom,  the  conspicuity  of  being  on  her  feet  and 
treading  a  stage  were  agreeable  to  her.  While 
Sherringham  lingered  near  her,  vaguely,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  not  knowing  exactly  what 
to  say  and  instinctively  avoiding,  now,  the  theat- 
rical question  (there  were  moments  when  he  was 
plentifully  tired  of  it),  she  broke  out,  abruptly: 
"  Confess  that  you  think  me  intolerably  bad  !  " 
"  Intolerably  — no." 

"  Only  tolerably !     I  think  that 's  worse." 
"  Every  now  and  then  you  do  something  very 
clever,"  Sherringham  said. 

"  How  many  such  things  did  I  do  to-day  ?  " 
"  Oh,   three  or  four.      I   don't  know  that   I 
counted  very  carefully." 


I/O  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

She  raised  her  cup  to  her  lips,  looking  at  him 
over  the  rim  of  it  — a  proceeding  which  gave  her 
eyes  a  strange  expression.  "  It  bores  you,  and 
you  think  it  disagreeable,"  she  said  in  a  moment 
—  "a  girl  always  talking  about  herself."  He 
protested  that  she  could  never  bore  him,  and  she 
went  on:  "Oh,  I  don't  want  compliments  —  I 
want  the  truth.  An  actress  has  to  talk  about 
herself ;  what  else  can  she  talk  about,  poor  vain 
thing  ?  " 

"  She  can  talk  sometimes  about  other  ac- 
tresses." 

"That  comes  to  the  same  thing.  You  won't 
be  serious.  I  'm  awfully  serious."  There  was 
something  that  caught  his  attention  in  the  way 
she  said  this  —  a  longing,  half  hopeless,  half  ar- 
gumentative, to  be  believed  in.  "  If  one  really 
wants  to  do  anything,  one  must  worry  it  out ;  of 
course  everything  doesn't  come  the  first  day," 
she  pursued.  "  I  can't  see  everything  at  once  ; 
but  I  can  see  a  little  more  —  step  by  step  —  as  I 
go  :  can't  I  ?  " 

"  That 's  the  way  —  that 's  the  way,"  said  Sher- 
ringham.  "  If  you  see  the  things  to  do,  the  art 
of  doing  them  will  come,  if  you  hammer  away. 
The  great  point  is  to  see  them." 

"Yes  ;  and  you  don't  think  me  clever  enough 
for  that." 

"  Why  do  you  say  so,  when  I  've  asked  you  to 
come  here,  on  purpose  ?  " 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  I/I 

"  You  've  asked  me  to  come,  but  I  've  had  no 
success." 

"  On  the  contrary ;  every  one  thought  you 
wonderful." 

"  Oh,  they  don't  know  ! "  said  Miriam  Rooth. 
"  You  've  not  said  a  word  to  me.  I  don't  mind 
your  not  having  praised  me  ;  that  would  be  too 
banal.  But  if  I  'm  bad  —  and  I  know  I  'm  dread- 
ful—  I  wish  you  would  talk  to  me  about  it." 

"  It 's  delightful  to  talk  to  you,"  Sherringham 
said. 

"No,  it  isn't,  but  it's  kind,"  she  answered, 
looking  away  from  him. 

Her  voice  had  a  quality,  as  she  uttered  these 
words,  which  made  him  exclaim,  "  Every  now  and 
then  you  say  something  —  !  " 

She  turned  her  eyes  back  to  him,  smiling.  "  I 
don't  want  it  to  come  by  accident."  Then  she 
added :  "  If  there 's  any  good  to  be  got  from  try- 
ing, from  showing  one's  self,  how  can  it  come  un- 
less one  hears  the  simple  truth,  the  truth  that 
turns  one  inside  out  ?  It 's  all  for  that  —  to  know 
what  one  is,  if  one  's  a  stick ! " 

"  You  have  great  courage,  you  have  rare  qual- 
ities," said  Sherringham.  She  had  begun  to 
touch  him,  to  seem  different :  he  was  glad  she 
had  not  gone. 

For  a  moment  she  made  no  response  to  this, 
putting  down  her  empty  cup  and  looking  vaguely 
over  the  table,  as  if  to  select  something  more  to 


1/2  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

eat.  Suddenly  she  raised  her  head  and  broke 
out  with  vehemence,  "  I  will,  I  will,  I  will !  " 
"You  '11  do  what  you  want,  evidently." 
"  I  will  succeed  —  I  will  be  great.  Of  course 
I  know  too  little,  I  've  seen  too  little.  But  I  've 
always  liked  it ;  I  've  never  liked  anything  else. 
I  used  to  learn  things,  and  to  do  scenes,  and  to 
rant  about  the  room,  when  I  was  five  years  old." 
She  went  on,  communicative,  persuasive,  familiar, 
egotistical  (as  was  necessary),  and  slightly  com- 
mon, or  perhaps  only  natural  ;  with  reminiscences, 
reasons  and  anecdotes,  an  unexpected  profusion, 
and  with  an  air  of  comradeship,  of  freedom  of  in- 
tercourse, which  appeared  to  plead  that  she  was 
capable  at  least  of  embracing  that  side  of  the  pro- 
fession she  desired  to  adopt.  He  perceived  that 
if  she  had  seen  very  little,  as  she  said,  she  had  also 
seen  a  great  deal ;  but  both  her  experience  and 
her  innocence  had  been  accidental  and  irregular. 
She  had  seen  very  little  acting  —  the  theatre  was 
always  too  expensive.  If  she  could  only  go  often 
—  in  Paris,  for  instance,  every  night  for  six 
months  —  to  see  the  best,  the  worst,  everything, 
she  would  make  things  out,  she  would  observe  and 
learn,  what  to  do,  what  not  to  do  :  it  would  be  a 
kind  of  school.  But  she  could  n't,  without  selling 
the  clothes  off  her  back.  It  was  vile  and  disgust- 
ing to  be  poor ;  and  if  ever  she  were  to  know  the 
bliss  of  having  a  few  francs  in  her  pocket,  she 
would  make  up  for  it  —  that  she  could  promise  ! 
She  had  never  been  acquainted  with  any  one  who 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  173 

could  tell  her  anything  —  if  it  was  good  or  bad, 
or  right  or  wrong  —  except  Mrs.  Delamere  and 
poor  Ruggieri.  She  supposed  they  had  told  her 
a  great  deal,  but  perhaps  they  had  n't,  and  she 
was  perfectly  willing  to  give  it  up  if  it  was  bad. 
Evidently  Madame  Carre  thought  so  ;  she  thought 
it  was  horrid.  Wasn't  it  perfectly  divine,  the 
way  the  old  woman  had  said  those  verses,  those 
speeches  of  Celie  ?  If  she  would  only  let  her  come 
and  listen  to  her  once  in  a  while,  like  that,  it  was 
all  she  would  ask.  She  had  got  lots  of  ideas,  just 
from  that ;  she  had  practiced  them  over,  over  and 
over  again,  the  moment  she  got  home.  He  might 
ask  her  mother  —  he  might  ask  the  people  next 
door.  If  Madame  Carre  did  n't  think  she  could 
work,  she  might  have  heard  something  that  would 
show  her.  But  she  did  n't  think  her  even  good 
enough  to  criticise  ;  for  that  was  n't  criticism,  tell- 
ing her  her  head  was  good.  Of  course  her  head 
was  good;  she  didn't  need  to  travel  up  to  the 
quartiers  excentrique  to  find  that  out.  It  was  her 
mother,  the  way  she  talked,  who  gave  that  idea, 
that  she  wanted  to  be  elegant,  and  moral,  and  a 
femme  du  monde,  and  all  that  sort  of  trash.  Of 
course  that  put  people  off,  when  they  were  only 
thinking  of  the  right  way.  Did  n't  she  know, 
Miriam  herself,  that  that  was  the  only  thing  to 
think  of  ?  But  any  one  would  be  kind  to  her 
mother  who  knew  what  a  dear  she  was.  "  She 
does  n't  know  when  it's  right  or  wrong,  but  she's 
a  perfect  saint,"  said  the  girl,  obscuring  consid- 


1/4  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

erably  her  vindication.  "  She  does  n't  mind  when 
I  say  things  over  by  the  hour,  dinning  them  into 
her  ears  while  she  sits  there  and  reads.  She  's 
a  tremendous  reader ;  she 's  awfully  up  in  liter- 
ature. She  taught  me  everything  herself.  I 
mean  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Of  course  I  'm  not 
so  fond  of  reading ;  I  go  in  for  the  book  of  life." 
Sherringham  wondered  whether  her  mother  had 
not,  at  any  rate,  taught  her  that  phrase,  and 
thought  it  highly  probable.  "  It  would  give  on 
my  nerves,  the  life  I  lead  her,"  Miriam  contin- 
ued ;  "but  she  's  really  a  delicious  woman." 

The  oddity  of  this  epithet  made  Sherringham 
laugh,  and  altogether,  in  a  few  minutes,  which  is 
perhaps  a  sign  that  he  abused  his  right  to  be  a 
man  of  moods,  the  young  lady  had  produced  a 
revolution  of  curiosity  in  him,  reawakened  his 
sympathy.  Her  mixture,  as  it  spread  itself  be- 
fore one,  was  a  quickening  spectacle :  she  was 
intelligent  and  clumsy  —  she  was  underbred  and 
fine.  Certainly  she  was  very  various,  and  that 
was  rare ;  not  at  all,  at  this  moment,  the  heavy- 
eyed,  frightened  creature  who  had  pulled  her- 
self together  with  such  an  effort  at  Madame 
Carry's,  nor  the  elated  "  phenomenon  "  who  had 
just  been  declaiming,  nor  the  rather  affected 
and  contradictious  young  person  with  whom  he 
had  walked  home  from  the  Rue  de  Constanti- 
nople. Was  this  succession  of  phases  a  sign 
that  she  really  possessed  the  celebrated  artistic 
temperament,  the  nature  that  made  people  pro- 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  175 

yoking  and  interesting  ?  That  Sherringham  him- 
self was  of  that  shifting  complexion  is  perhaps 
proved  by  his  odd  capacity  for  being  of  two 
different  minds  at  very  nearly  the  same  time. 
Miriam  was  pretty  now,  with  likeable  looks  and 
charming  usual  eyes.  Yes,  there  were  things  he 
could  do  for  her  ;  he  had  already  forgotten  the 
chill  of  Mr.  Nash's  irony,  of  his  prophecy.  He 
was  even  scarcely  conscious  how  much,  in  gen- 
eral, he  detested  hints,  insinuations,  favours  asked 
obliquely  and  plaintively  :  that  was  doubtless  also 
because  the  girl  was  so  pretty  and  so  fraternizing. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  it  was  unjust  to  qualify  it  as 
roundabout,  the  manner  in  which  Miss  Rooth 
conveyed  to  him  that  it  was  open  to  him  not  only 
to  pay  for  lessons  for  her,  but  to  meet  the  expense 
of  her  nightly  attendance,  with  her  mother,  at 
instructive  exhibitions  of  theatrical  art.  It  was 
a  large  order,  sending  the  pair  to  all  the  plays ; 
but  what  Sherringham  now  found  himself  think 
ing  about  was  not  so  much  its  largeness  as  that 
it  would  be  rather  interesting  to  go  with  them 
sometimes  and  point  the  moral  (the  technical  one), 
showing  her  the  things  he  liked,  the  things  he 
disapproved.  She  repeated  her  declaration  that 
she  recognized  the  fallacy  of  her  mother's  views 
about  "  noble  "  heroines  and  about  the  importance 
of  her  looking  out  for  such  tremendously  proper 
people.  "  One  must  let  her  talk,  but  of  course  it 
creates  a  prejudice,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  on 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lovick,  who  had  got  up,  terminat- 


176  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

ing  their  communion  with  Mrs.  Rooth.  "  It 's  a 
great  muddle,  I  know,  but  she  can't  bear  anything 
coarse  —  and  quite  right,  too.  I  should  n't,  either, 
if  I  did  n't  have  to.  But  I  don't  care  where  I  go 
if  I  can  act,  or  who  they  are  if  they  '11  help  me. 
I  want  to  act  —  that  's  what  I  want  to  do  ;  I 
don't  want  to  meddle  in  people's  affairs.  I  can 
look  out  for  myself  —  7'm  all  right !  "  the  girl 
exclaimed,  roundly,  frankly,  with  a  ring  of  hon- 
esty which  made  her  crude  and  pure.  "  As  for 
doing  the  bad  ones,  I  'm  not  afraid  of  that." 

"  The  bad  ones  ? " 

"  The  bad  women,  in  the  plays  —  like  Madame 
Carre*.  I  '11  do  anything." 

"  I  think  you  '11  do  best  what  you  are,"  re- 
marked Sherringham,  laughing.  "  You  're  a 
strange  girl." 

"  Je  crois  bien  !  Does  n't  one  have  to  be,  to 
want  to  go  and  exhibit  one's  self  to  a  loathsome 
crowd,  on  a  platform,  with  trumpets  and  a  big 
drum,  for  money  —  to  parade  one's  body  and 
one's  soul  ? " 

Sherringham  looked  at  her  a  moment :  her 
face  changed  constantly  ;  now  there  was  a  little 
flush  and  a  noble  delicacy  in  it. 

"Give  it  up  ;  you're  too  good  for  it,"  he  said, 
abruptly. 

"  Never,  never  —  never  till  I  'm  pelted  !  " 

"  Then  stay  on  here  a  bit ;  I  '11  take  you  to  the 
theatres." 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  Iff 

"  Oh,  you  dear  !  "  Miriam  delightedly  ex- 
claimed. Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lovick,  accompanied  by 
Mrs.  Rooth,  now  crossed  the  room  to  them,  and 
the  girl  went  on,  in  the  same  tone :  "  Mamma, 
dear,  he  's  the  best  friend  we  've  ever  had  ;  he's 
a  great  deal  nicer  than  I  thought." 

"So  are  you,  mademoiselle,"  said  Peter  Sher- 
ringham. 

"Oh,  I  trust  Mr.  Sherringham — I  trust  him 
infinitely,"  Mrs.  Rooth  returned,  covering  him 
with  her  mild,  respectable,  wheedling  eyes.  "  The 
kindness  of  every  one  has  been  beyond  every- 
thing. Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lovick  can't  say  enough. 
They  make  the  most  obliging  offers ;  they  want 
you  to  know  their  brother." 

"  Oh,  I  say,  he 's  no  brother  of  mine,"  Mr. 
Lovick  protested,  good-naturedly. 

"  They  think  he  '11  be  so  suggestive,  he  '11  put 
us  up  to  the  right  things,"  Mrs.  Rooth  went  on. 

"It's  just  a  little  brother  of  mine  —  such  a 
dear,  clever  boy,"  Mrs.  Lovick  explained. 

"  Do  you  know  she  has  got  nine  ?  Upon  my 
honor  she  has  !  "  said  her  husband.  "  This  one 
is  the  sixth.  Fancy  if  I  had  to  take  them 
over ! " 

"  Yes,  it  makes  it  rather  awkward,"  Mrs.  Lov- 
ick amiably  conceded.  "  He  has  gone  on  the 
stage,  poor  dear  boy  ;  he  acts  rather  well." 

"  He  tried  for  the  diplomatic  service,  but  he 
did  n't  precisely  dazzle  his  examiners,"  Mr.  Lov- 
ick remarked. 


1/8  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Edmund  's  very  nasty  about  him.  There  are 
lots  of  gentlemen  on  the  stage  ;  he  's  not  the 
first." 

"  It 's  such  a  comfort  to  hear  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Rooth. 

"  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you.  Has  he  got  a 
theatre  ? "  Miriam  asked. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  he  has  n't  even  got  an 
engagement,"  replied  the  young  man's  unsym- 
pathizing  brother-in-law. 

"  He  has  n't  been  at  it  very  long,  but  I  'm  sure 
he  '11  get  on.  He  's  immensely  in  earnest,  and 
he's  very  good-looking.  I  just  said  that  if  he 
should  come  over  to  see  us  you  might  rather  like 
to  meet  him.  He  might  give  you  some  tips,  as 
my  husband  says." 

"  I  don't  care  for  his  looks,  but  I  should  like 
his  tips,"  said  Miriam,  smiling. 

"And  is  he  coming  over  to  see  you  ?"  asked 
Sherringham,  to  whom,  while  this  exchange  of 
remarks,  which  he  had  not  lost,  was  going  on, 
Mrs.  Rooth  had,  in  lowered  accents,  addressed 
herself. 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it,  I  think  !  "  Mr.  Lovick 
declared,  but  so  jocosely  that  it  was  not  embar- 
rassing. 

"Oh,  sir,  I'm  sure  you 're  fond  of  him,"  Mrs. 
Rooth  remonstrated,  as  the  party  passed  together 
into  the  ante-chamber. 

"No,  really,  I  like  some  of  the  others — four 
or  five  of  them  ;  but  I  don't  like  Arty." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  179 

"  We  '11  make  it  up  to  him,  then  ;  we  '11  like 
him,"  Miriam  declared,  gayly :  and  her  voice  rang 
in  the  staircase  (Sherringham  went  a  little  way 
with  them),  with  a  charm  which  her  host  had 
not  perceived  in  her  soortive  note  the  day  be- 
fore. 


IX. 

NICK  DORMER  found  his  friend  Nash,  that 
evening,  on  the  spot  he  had  designated,  smoking 
a  cigar  in  the  warm,  bright  night,  in  front  of  the 
cafe  at  the  corner  of  the  square  before  the  Opera. 
He  sat  down  with  him,  but  at  the  end  of  five  min- 
utes he  uttered  a  protest  against  the  crush  and 
confusion,  the  publicity  and  vulgarity  of  the  place, 
the  shuffling  procession  of  the  crowd,  the  jostle  of 
fellow-customers,  the  perpetual  brush  of  waiters. 
"  Come  away.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  and  I  can't 
talk  here,"  he  said  to  his  companion.  "  I  don't 
care  where  we  go.  It  will  be  pleasant  to  walk  ; 
we  '11  stroll  away  to  the  quartiers  strieux.  Each 
time  I  come  to  Paris,  at  the  end  of  three  days, 
I  take  the  boulevard,  with  its  conventional  grim- 
ace, into  greater  disfavour.  I  hate  even  to  cross 
it,  and  go  half  a  mile  round  to  avoid  it." 

The  young  men  took  their  course  together 
down  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  to  the  Rue  de  Rivoli, 
which  they  crossed,  passing  beside  the  gilded 
railing  of  the  Tuileries.  The  beauty  of  the  night 
—  the  only  defect  of  which  was  that  the  im- 
mense illumination  of  Paris  kept  it  from  being 
quite  night  enough,  made  it  a  sort  of  bedizened, 
rejuvenated  day  —  gave  a  charm  to  the  quieter 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  l8l 

streets,  drew  our  friends  away  to  the  right,  to  the 
river  and  the  bridges,  the  older,  duskier  city.  The 
pale  ghost  of  the  palace  that  had  died  by  fire 
hung  over  them  awhile,  and,  by  the  passage  now 
open  at  all  times  across  the  garden  of  the  Tuil- 
eries,  they  came  out  upon  the  Seine.  They  kept 
on  and  on,  moving  slowly,  smoking,  talking,  paus- 
ing, stopping  to  look,  to  emphasize,  to  compare. 
They  fell  into  discussion,  into  confidence,  into 
inquiry,  sympathetic  or  satiric,  and  into  explana- 
tion which  needed  in  turn  to  be  explained.  The 
balmly  night,  the  time  for  talk,  the  amusement  of 
Paris,  the  memory  of  young  confabulations  gave 
a  quality  to  the  occasion.  Nick  had  already  for- 
gotten the  little  brush  he  had  had  with  Mrs.  Dai- 
low,  when  they  quitted  Peter's  tea-party  together, 
and  that  he  had  been  almost  disconcerted  by  the 
manner  in  which  she  characterized  the  odious 
man  he  had  taken  it  into  his  head  to  present  to 
her.  Impertinent  and  fatuous  she  had  called 
him  ;  and  when  Nick  began  to  explain  that  he 
was  really  neither  of  these  things,  though  he 
could  imagine  his  manner  might  sometimes  sug- 
gest them,  she  had  declared  that  she  did  n't  wish 
to  argue  about  him  or  ever  to  hear  of  him  again. 
Nick  had  not  counted  on  her  liking  Gabriel  Nash, 
but  he  had  thought  it  would  n't  matter  much  if 
she  should  dislike  him  a  little.  He  had  given 
himself  the  diversion,  which  he  had  not  dreamed 
would  be  cruel  to  any  one  concerned,  of  seeing 
what  she  would  make  of  a  type  she  had  never 


1 82  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

encountered  before.  She  had  made  even  less 
than  he  expected,  and  her  implication  that  he  had 
played  her  a  trick  had  been  irritating  enough  to 
prevent  him  from  reflecting  that  the  fault  might 
have  been  in  some  degree  with  Nash.  But  he 
had  recovered  from  his  resentment  sufficiently  to 
ask  this  personage,  with  every  possible  circum- 
stance of  implied  consideration  for  the  lady,  what 
he,  on  his  side,  had  made  of  his  charming  cousin. 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear  fellow,  I  don't  regard 
that  as  a  fair  question,"  was  the  answer.  "  Be- 
sides, if  you  think  Mrs.  Dallow  charming,  what 
on  earth  need  it  matter  to  you  what  I  think? 
The  superiority  of  one  man's  opinion  over  an- 
other's is  never  so  great  as  when  the  opinion  is 
about  a  woman." 

"  It  was  to  help  me  to  find  out  what  I  think  of 
yourself,"  said  Nick  Dormer. 

"  Oh,  that  you  '11  never  do.  I  shall  bother  you 
to  the  end.  The  lady  with  whom  you  were  so 
good  as  to  make  me  acquainted  is  a  beautiful 
specimen  of  the  English  garden-flower,  the  pro- 
duct of  high  cultivation  and  much  tending  ;  a  tall, 
delicate  stem,  with  the  head  set  upon  it  in  a  man- 
ner which,  as  I  recall  it,  is  distinctly  so  much  to 
the  good  in  my  day.  She 's  the  perfect  type  of 
the  object  raised,  or  bred,  and  everything  about 
her  is  homogeneous,  from  the  angle  of  her  elbow 
to  the  way  she  drops  that  vague,  conventional, 
dry  little  '  Oh  ! '  which  dispenses  with  all  further 
performance.  That  sort  of  completeness  is  al- 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  183 

ways  satisfying.  But  I  did  n't  satisfy  her,  and 
she  did  n't  understand  me.  I  don't  think  they 
usually  understand." 

"  She's  no  worse  than  I,  then." 

"  Ah,  she  did  n't  try." 

"  No,  she  does  n't  try.  But  she  probably 
thought  you  conceited,  and  she  would  think  so 
still  more  if  she  were  to  hear  you  talk  about  her 
trying." 

"  Very  likely  —  very  likely,"  said  Gabriel  Nash. 
"  I  have  an  idea  a  good  many  people  think  that. 
It  appears  to  me  so  droll.  I  suppose  it 's  a  result 
of  my  little  system." 

"  Your  little  system  ?" 

"  Oh,  it 's  nothing  wonderful.  Only  the  idea 
of  being  just  the  same  to  every  one.  People 
have  so  bemuddled  themselves  that  the  last  thing 
they  can  conceive  is  that  one  should  be  simple." 

"  Lord,  do  you  call  yourself  simple  ? "  Nick 
ejaculated. 

"  Absolutely  ;  in  the  sense  of  having  no  in- 
terest of  my  own  to  push,  no  nostrum  to  adver- 
tise, no  power  to  conciliate,  no  axe  to  grind.  I  'm 
not  a  savage —  ah,  far  from  it  —  but  I  really  think 
I  'm  perfectly  independent." 

"  Oh,  that 's  always  provoking  !  "  laughed  Nick. 

"So  it  would  appear,  to  the  great  majority  of 
one's  fellow-mortals  ;  and  I  well  remember  the 
pang  with  which  I  originally  made  that  discovery. 
It  darkened  my  spirit,  at  a  time  when  I  had  no 
thought  of  evil.  What  we  like,  when  we  are  un- 


1 84  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

regenerate,  is  that  a  newcomer  should  give  us  a 
password,  come  over  to  our  side,  join  our  little 
camp  or  religion,  get  into  our  little  boat,  in  short, 
whatever  it  is,  and  help  us  to  row  it.  It 's  natural 
enough  ;  we  are  mostly  in  different  tubs  and 
cockles,  paddling  for  life.  Our  opinions,  our  con- 
victions and  doctrines  and  standards,  are  simply 
the  particular  thing  that  will  make  the  boat  go  — . 
our  boat,  naturally,  for  they  may  very  often  be 
just  the  thing  that  will  sink  another.  If  you 
won't  get  in,  people  generally  hate  you." 

"  Your  metaphor  is  very  lame,"  said  Nick  ;  "  it 's 
the  overcrowded  boat  that  goes  to  the  bottom." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  give  it  another  leg  or  two  !  Boats 
can  be  big,  in  the  infinite  of  space,  and  a  doctrine 
is  a  raft  that  floats  the  better  the  more  passen- 
gers it  carries.  A  passenger  jumps  over  from 
time  to  time,  not  so  much  from  fear  of  sinking  as 
from  a  want  of  interest  in  the  course  or  the  com- 
pany. He  swims,  he  plunges,  he  dives,  he  dips 
down  and  visits  the  fishes  and  the  mermaids  and 
the  submarine  caves  ;  he  goes  from  craft  to  craft, 
and  splashes  about,  on  his  own  account,  in  the 
blue,  cool  water.  The  regenerate,  as  I  call  them, 
are  the  passengers  who  jump  over,  in  search  of 
better  fun.  I  turned  my  somersault  long  ago." 

"  And  now,  of  course,  you  're  at  the  head  of 
the  regenerate ;  for,  in  your  turn,  you  all  form  a 
select  school  of  porpoises." 

"  Not  a  bit,  and  I  know  nothing  about  heads, 
in  the  sense  you  mean.  I  've  grown  a  tail,  if  you 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  185 

will ;  I  'm  the  merman  wandering  free.  It 's  a 
delightful  trade !  " 

Before  they  had  gone  many  steps  further  Nick 
Dormer  stopped  short,  and  said  to  his  com- 
panion :  "  I  say,  my  dear  fellow,  do  you  mind 
mentioning  to  me  whether  you  are  the  greatest 
humbug  and  charlatan  on  earth,  or  a  genuine 
intelligence,  one  that  has  sifted  things  for  it- 
self?" 

"  I  do  puzzle  you  —  I  'm  so  sorry,"  Nash  re- 
plied, benignly.  "  But  I  'm  very  sincere.  And 
I  have  tried  to  straighten  out  things  a  bit  for 
myself." 

"Then  why  do  you  give  people  such  a  han- 
dle ? " 

"  Such  a  handle  ?  " 

"  For  thinking  you  're  an  —  for  thinking  you  're 
not  wise." 

"  I  dare  say  it 's  my  manner ;  they  're  so  unused 
to  candour." 

"  Why  don't  you  try  another  ?  "  Nick  inquired. 

"  One  has  the  manner  that  one  can ;  and  mine, 
moreover,  is  a  part  of  my  little  system." 

"  Ah,  if  you  've  got  a  little  system,  you  're  no 
better  than  any  one  else,"  said  Nick  going  on. 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  be  better,  for  we  are  all 
miserable  sinners  ;  I  only  pretend  to  be  bad  in  a 
pleasanter,  brighter  way,  by  what  I  can  see.  It 's 
the  simplest  thing  in  the  world  ;  I  just  take  for 
granted  a  certain  brightness  in  life,  a  certain 
frankness.  What  is  essentially  kinder  than  that, 


1 86  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

what  is  more  harmless  ?  But  the  tradition  of 
dreariness,  of  stodginess,  of  dull,  dense,  literal 
prose,  has  so  sealed  people's  eyes  that  they  have 
ended  by  thinking  the  most  normal  thing  in  the 
world  the  most  fantastic.  Why  be  dreary,  in 
our  little  day  ?  No  one  can  tell  me  why,  and  al- 
most every  one  calls  me  names  for  simply  asking 
the  question.  But  I  keep  on,  for  I  believe  one 
can  do  a  little  good  by  it.  I  want  so  much  to  do 
a  little  good,"  Gabriel  Nash  continued,  taking  his 
companion's  arm.  "  My  persistence  is  syste- 
matic :  don't  you  see  what  I  mean  ?  I  won't  be 
dreary  —  no,  no,  no;  and  I  won't  recognize  the 
necessity,  or  even,  if  there  is  any  way  out  of  it, 
the  accident  of  dreariness  in  the  life  that  sur- 
rounds me.  That 's  enough  to  make  people  stare  : 
they  're  so  stupid  !  " 

"  They  think  you  're  impertinent,"  Dormer  re- 
marked. 

At  this  his  companion  stopped  him  short,  with 
an  ejaculation  of  pain,  and,  turning  his  eyes,  Nick 
saw  under  the  lamps  of  the  quay  that  he  had 
brought  a  vivid  blush  into  Nash's  face.  "  I  don't 
strike  you  that  way  ?  "  Gabriel  asked,  reproach- 
fully. 

"Oh,  me!  Wasn't  it  just  admitted  that  I 
don't  in  the  least  make  you  out  ? " 

"  That 's  the  last  thing  !  "  Nash  murmured,  as 
if  he  were  thinking  the  idea  over,  with  an  air  of 
genuine  distress.  "  But  with  a  little  patience 
we  '11  clear  it  up  together,  if  you  care  enough 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  187 

about  it,"  he  added  more  cheerfully.  He  let  his 
friend  go  on  again,  and  he  continued  :  "  Heaven 
help  us  all !  what  do  people  mean  by  impertinence  ? 
There  are  many,  I  think,  who  don't  understand 
its  nature  or  its  limits  ;  and  upon  my  word,  I  have 
literally  seen  mere  quickness  of  intelligence  or  of 
perception,  the  jump  of  a  step  or  two,  a  little 
whirr  of  the  wings  of  talk,  mistaken  for  it.  Yes, 
I  have  encountered  men  and  women  who  thought 
you  were  impertinent  if  you  were  not  so  stupid 
as  they.  The  only  impertinence  is  aggression, 
and  I  indignantly  protest  that  I  am  never  guilty 
of  that  clumsiness.  Ah,  for  what  do  they  take 
one,  with  their  presumptions  ?  Even  to  defend 
myself,  sometimes,  I  have  to  make  believe  to  my- 
self that  I  care.  I  always  feel  as  if  I  did  n't  suc- 
cessfully make  others  think  so.  Perhaps  they 
see  an  impertinence  in  that.  But  I  dare  say  the 
offense  is  in  the  things  that  I  take,  as  I  say,  for 
granted  ;  for  if  one  tries  to  be  pleased,  one  passes, 
perhaps  inevitably,  for  being  pleased  above  all 
with  one's  self.  That 's  really  not  my  case,  for  I 
find  my  capacity  for  pleasure  deplorably  below 
the  mark  I  've  set.  That 's  why,  as  I  have  told 
you,  I  cultivate  it,  I  try  to  bring  it  up.  And  I 
am  actuated  by  positive  benevolence  ;  I  have  that 
pretension.  That's  what  I  mean  by  being  the 
same  to  every  one,  by  having  only  one  manner. 
If  one  is  conscious  and  ingenious  to  that  end, 
what 's  the  harm,  when  one's  motives  are  so 
pure  ?  By  never,  never  making  the  concession, 


1 88  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

one  may  end  by  becoming  a  perceptible  force  for 
good." 

"What  concession  are  you  talking  about?" 
asked  Nick  Dormer. 

"  Why,  that  we  are  only  here  for  dreariness. 
It 's  impossible  to  grant  it  sometimes,  if  you  wish 
to  withhold  it  ever." 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  by  dreariness  ? 
That 's  modern  slang,  and  it 's  terribly  vague. 
Many  good  things  are  dreary  —  virtue  and  de- 
cency and  charity,  and  perseverance  and  courage 
and  honour." 

"  Say  at  once  that  life  is  dreary,  my  dear  fel- 
low !  "  Gabriel  Nash  exclaimed. 

"  That 's  on  the  whole  my  most  usual  impres- 
sion." 

"  C'est  la  que  je  vous  attends  !  I  'm  precisely 
engaged  in  trying  what  can  be  done  in  taking  it 
the  other  way.  It 's  my  little  personal  experi- 
'  ment.  Life  consists  of  the  personal  experiments 
t  of  each  of  us,  and  the  point  of  an  experiment  is 
that  it  shall  succeed.  What  we  contribute  is  our 
treatment  of  the  material,  our  rendering  of  the 
text,  our  style.  A  sense  of  the  qualities  of  a 
style  is  so  rare  that  many  persons  should  doubt- 
less be  forgiven  for  not  being  able  to  read,  or  at 
all  events  to  enjoy  us  ;  but  is  that  a  reason  for 
giving  it  up  —  for  not  being,  in  this  other  sphere, 
if  one  possibly  can,  a  Macaulay,  a  Ruskin,  a 
Renan  ?  Ah,  we  must  write  our  best ;  it 's  the 
great  thing  we  can  do  in  the  world,  on  the  right 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  189 

side.  One  has  one's  form,  que  diable,  and  a 
mighty  good  thing  that  one  has.  I  'm  not  afraid 
of  putting  all  life  into  mine,  without  unduly 
squeezing  it.  I  'm  not  afraid  of  putting  in  honour 
and  courage  and  charity,  without  spoiling  them : 
on  the  contrary,  I  '11  only  do  them  good.  People 
may  not  read  you  at  sight,  may  not  like  you,  but 
there  's  a  chance  they  '11  come  round  ;  and  the 
only  way  to  court  the  chance  is  to  keep  it  up  — 
always  to  keep  it  up.  That 's  what  I  do,  my  dear 
fellow,  if  you  don't  think  I  've  perseverance.  If 
some  one  likes  it  here  and  there,  if  you  give  a 
little  impression  of  solidity,  that 's  your  reward ; 
besides,  of  course,  the  pleasure  for  yourself." 

"Don't  you  think  your  style  is  a  little  af- 
fected ? "  Nick  asked,  laughing,  as  they  pro- 
ceeded. 

"That's  always  the  charge  against  a  personal 
manner  ;  if  you  have  any  at  all,  people  think  you 
have  too  much.  Perhaps,  perhaps  —  who  can 
say  ?  Of  course  one  is  n't  perfect ;  but  that's  the 
delightful  thing  about  art,  that  there  is  always 
more  to  learn  and  more  to  do  ;  one  can  polish 
and  polish,  and  refine  and  refine.  No  doubt  I  'm 
rough  still,  but  I  'm  in  the  right  direction :  I  make 
it  my  business  to  take  for  granted  an  interest  in 
the  beautiful." 

"Ah,  the  beautiful  —  there  it  stands,  over 
there  ! "  said  Nick  Dormer.  "  I  am  not  so  sure 
about  yours  —  I  don't  know  what  I  've  got  hold 
of.  But  Notre  Dame  is  solid  ;  Notre  Dame  is 


I QO  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

wise ;  on  Notre  Dame  the  distracted  mind  can 
rest.  Come  over  and  look  at  her !  " 

They  had  come  abreast  of  the  low  island  from 
which  the  great  cathedral,  disengaged  to-day 
from  her  old  contacts  and  adhesions,  rises  high 
and  fair,  with  her  front  of  beauty  and  her  majestic 
mass,  darkened  at  that  hour,  or  at  least  simplified, 
under  the  stars,  but  only  more  serene  and  sub- 
lime for  her  happy  union,  far  aloft,  with  the  cool 
distance  and  the  night.  Our  young  men,  gossip- 
ing as  profitably  as  I  leave  the  reader  to  estimate, 
crossed  the  wide,  short  bridge  which  made  them 
face  toward  the  monuments  of  old  Paris — the 
Palais  de  Justice,  the  Conciergerie,  the  holy 
chapel  of  Saint  Louis.  They  came  out  before 
the  church,  which  looks  down  on  a  square  where 
the  past,  once  so  thick  in  the  very  heart  of  Paris, 
has  been  made  rather  a  blank,  pervaded,  however, 
by  the  everlasting  freshness  of  the  great  cathe- 
dral-face. It  greeted  Nick  Dormer  and  Gabriel 
Nash  with  a  kindness  which  the  centuries  had 
done  nothing  to  dim.  The  lamplight  of  the  great 
city  washed  its  foundations,  but  the  towers  and 
buttresses,  the  arches,  the  galleries,  the  statues, 
the  vast  rose-window,  the  large,  full  composition, 
seemed  to  grow  clearer  as  they  climbed  higher, 
as  if  they  had  a  conscious  benevolent  answer  for 
the  upward  gaze  of  men. 

"  How  it  straightens  tilings  out  and  blows 
away  one's  vapors  —  anything  that 's  done  !  "  snid 
Nick  ;  while  his  companion  exclaimed,  blandly 
and  affectionately : 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  191 

"The  dear  old  thing!" 

"  The  great  point  is  to  do  something,  instead 
of  muddling  and  questioning  ;  and,  by  Jove,  it 
makes  me  want  to  !  " 

"  Want  to  build  a  cathedral  ? "  Nash  inquired. 

"  Yes,  just  that." 

"  It 's  you  who  puzzle  me,  then,  my  dear  fel- 
low. You  can't  build  them  out  of  words." 

"  What  is  it  the  great  poets  do  ?  "  asked  Nick. 

"  Their  words  are  ideas  —  their  words  are 
images,  enchanting  collocations  and  unforget- 
table signs.  But  the  verbiage  of  parliamentary 
speeches ! " 

"  Well,"  said  Nick,  with  a  candid,  reflective 
sigh,  "You  can  rear  a  great  structure  of  many 
things  —  not  only  of  stones  and  timbers  and 
painted  glass."  They  walked  round  Notre  Dame, 
pausing,  criticising,  admiring  and  discussing; 
mingling  the  grave  with  the  gay  and  paradox  with 
contemplation.  Behind  and  at  the  sides,  the 
huge  dusky  vessel  of  the  church  seemed  to  dip 
into  the  Seine,  or  rise  out  of  it,  floating  expan- 
sively—  a  ship  of  stone,  with  its  flying  buttresses 
thrown  forth  like  an  array  of  mighty  oars.  Nick 
Dormer  lingered  near  it  with  joy,  with  a  certain 
soothing  content ;  as  if  it  had  been  the  temple  of 
a  faith  so  dear  to  him  that  there  was  peace  and 
security  in  its  precinct.  And  there  was  com- 
fort, too,  and  consolation  of  the  same  sort,  in  the 
company,  at  this  moment,  of  Nash's  equal  re 
sponse,  of  his  appreciation,  exhibited  by  his  own 


IQ2  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

signs,  of  the  great  effect.  He  felt  it  so  freely 
and  uttered  his  impression  with  such  vividness 
that  Nick  was  reminded  of  the  luminosity  his 
boyish  admiration  had  found  in  him  of  old,  the 
natural  intelligence  of  everything  of  that  kind. 
"Everything  of  that  kind"  was,  in  Nick's  mind, 
the  description  of  a  wide  and  bright  domain. 

They  crossed  to  the  further  side  of  the  river, 
where  the  influence  of  the  Gothic  monument 
threw  a  distinction  even  over  the  Parisian  smart- 
nesses —  the  municipal  rule  and  measure,  the 
importunate  symmetries,  the  "  handsomeness  " 
of  everything,  the  extravagance  of  gaslight,  the 
perpetual  click  on  the  neat  bridges.  In  front  of 
a  quiet  little  cafe  on  the  right  bank,  Gabriel  Nash 
said,  "  Let 's  sit  down  "  —  he  was  always  ready 
to  sit  down.  It  was  a  friendly  establishment  and 
an  unfashionable  quarter,  far  away  from  the 
Grand  Hotel ;  there  were  the  usual  little  tables 
and  chairs  on  the  quay,  the  muslin  curtains  be- 
hind the  glazed  front,  the  general  sense  of  saw- 
dust and  of  drippings  of  watery  beer.  The  place 
was  subdued  to  stillness,  but  not  extinguished,  by 
the  lateness  of  the  hour ;  no  vehicles  passed,  but 
only,  now  and  then,  a  light  Parisian  foot.  Be- 
yond the  parapet  they  could  hear  the  flow  of  the 
Seine.  Nick  Dormer  said  it  made  him  think  of 
the  old  Paris,  of  the  great  Revolution,  of  Madame 
Roland,  quoi!  Gabriel  Nash  said  they  could 
have  watery  beer,  but  were  not  obliged  to  drink 
it.  They  sat  a  long  time ;  they  talked  a  great 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  193 

deal,  and  the  more  they  said  the  more  the  unsaid 
came  up.  Presently  Nash  found  occasion  to  re- 
mark, "  I  go  about  my  buiness,  like  any  good  citi- 
zen—  that's  all." 

"  And  what  is  your  business  ? " 

"The  spectacle  of  the  world." 

Nick  laughed  out.     "  And  what  do  you  do  with 
that?" 

"  What  does  any  one  do  with  spectacles  ?    I 
Jook  at  it." 

"  You  are  full  of  contradictions  and  inconsis- 
tencies.    You  described  yourself  to  rne  half  an   \ 
hour  ago  as  an  apostle  of  beauty." 

"Where  is  the  inconsistency?  I  do  it  in  the 
broad  light  of  day,  whatever  I  do  :  that 's  virtu- 
ally what  I  meant.  If  I  look  at  the  spectacle  of 
the  world  I  look  in  preference  at  what  is  charm- 
ing in  it.  Sometimes  I  have  to  go  far  to  find  it 
—  very  likely  ;  but  that's  just  what  I  do.  I  go 
far  —  as  far  as  my  means  permit  me.  Last  year 
I  heard  of  such  a  delightful  little  spot ;  a  place 
where  a  wild  fig-tree  grows  in  the  south  wall,  the 
outer  side,  of  an  old  Spanish  city.  I  was  told  it 
was  a  deliciously  brown  corner,  with  the  sun  mak- 
ing it  warm  in  winter !  As  soon  as  I  could  I 
went  there." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  lay  on  the  first  green  grass  — I  liked  it." 

"  If  that  sort  of  thing  is  all  you  accomplish,  you 
are  not  encouraging." 

"  I  accomplish  my  happiness  —  it  seems  to  me 


IQ4  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

that 's  something.  I  have  feelings,  I  have  sensa- 
tions :  let  me  tell  you  that 's  not  so  common.  It 's 
rare  to  have  them  ;  and  if  you  chance  to  have 
them  it's  rare  not  to  be  ashamed  of  them.  I  go 
after  them  —  when  I  judge  they  won't  hurt  any 
one." 

"  You  're  lucky  to  have  money  for  your  travel- 
ing-expenses,"  said  Nick. 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt ;  but  I  do  it  very  cheap. 
I  take  my  stand  on  my  nature,  on  my  disposition. 
I  'm  not  ashamed  of  it,  I  don't  think  it 's  so  hor- 
rible, my  disposition.  But  we've  befogged  and 
befouled  so  the  whole  question  of  liberty,  of  spon- 
taneity, of  good-humor  and  inclination  and  enjoy- 
ment, that  there's  nothing  that  makes  people 
stare  so  as  to  see  one  natural." 

"  You  are  always  thinking  too  much  of  '  peo- 
pie.'" 

"They  say  I  think  too  little,"  Gabriel  smiled. 

"  Well,  I  've  agreed  to  stand  for  Harsh,"  said 
Nick,  with  a  roundabout  transition. 

"  It  'syou,  then,  who  are  lucky  to  have  money." 

"  I  have  n't,"  Nick  replied.  "  My  expenses  are 
to  be  paid." 

"Then  you  too  must  think  of  'people.' " 

Nick  made  no  answer  to  this,  but  after  a  mo- 
ment he  said,  "  I  wish  very  much  you  had  more 
to  show  for  it." 

"  To  show  for  what  ? " 

"Your  little  system  — the  aesthetic  life." 

Nash  hesitated,  tolerantly,  gayly,  as  he  often 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  195 

did,  with  an  air  of  being  embarrassed  to  choose 
between  several  answers,  any  one  of  them  would 
be  so  right.  "  Oh,  having  something  to  show  is 
such  a  poor  business.  It 's  a  kind  of  confession 
of  failure." 

"  Yes,  you  're  more  affected  than  anything 
else,"  said  Nick  impatiently. 

"  No,  my  dear  boy,  I  'm  more  good-natured  : 
don't  I  prove  it?  I'm  rather  disappointed  to 
find  that  you  are  not  worthy  of  the  esoteric  doc- 
trine. But  there  is,  I  confess,  another  plan&  of 
intelligence,  honorable,  and  very  honorable  ir.  its 
way,  from  which  it  may  legitimately  appear  im- 
portant to  have  something  to  show.  If  you  must 
confine  yourself  to  that  plane,  I  won't  refuse  you 
my  sympathy.  After  all,  that 's  what  /  have  *o 
show !  But  the  degree  of  my  sympathy  must  of 
course  depend  on  the  nature  of  the  manifestation 
that  you  wish  to  make." 

"  You  know  it  very  well  —  you  've  guessed  it," 
Nick  rejoined,  looking  before  him  in  a  conscious 
modest  way  which,  if  he  had  been  a  few  years 
younger,  would  have  been  called  sheepish. 

"  Ah,  you  've  broken  the  scent  with  telling  me 
you  are  going  to  return  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons," said  Nash. 

"  No  wonder  you  don't  make  it  out !  My  situ- 
ation is  certainly  absurd  enough.  What  I  really 
want  to  do  is  to  be  a  painter.  That's  the  abject, 
crude,  ridiculous  fact.  In  this  out-of-the-way 
corner,  at  the  dead  of  night,  in  lowered  tones,  I 


196  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

venture  to  disclose  it  to  you.     Is  n't   that  the 
aesthetic  life  ? " 

"Do  you  know  how  to  paint  ?  "  asked  Nash. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  No  element  of  burlesque 
is  therefore  wanting  to  my  position." 

"  That  makes  no  difference.     I  'm  so  glad ! " 

"  So  glad  I  don't  know  how  ? " 

"  So  glad  of  it  all.  Yes,  that  only  makes  it 
better.  You  're  a  delightful  case,  and  I  like  de- 
lightful cases.  We  must  see  it  through.  I  re- 
joice that  I  met  you." 

"  Do  you  think  I  can  do  anything  ? "  Nick  in- 
quired. 

"  Paint  good  pictures  ?  How  can  I  tell,  till 
I  Ve  seen  some  of  your  work  ?  Does  n't  it  come 
back  to  me  that  at  Oxford  you  used  to  sketch 
very  prettily  ?  But  that 's  the  last  thing  that 
matters." 

"  What  does  matter,  then  ?  "  Nick  demanded, 
turning  his  eyes  on  his  companion. 
j       "  To  be  on  the  right  side  —  on  the  side  of 
beauty." 

"  There  will  be  precious  little  beauty  if  I  pro- 
duce nothing  but  daubs." 

"  Ah,  you  cling  to  the  old  false  measure  of  suc- 
cess. I  must  cure  you  of  that.  There  will  be 
the  beauty  of  having  been  disinterested  and  inde- 
pendent ;  of  having  taken  the  world  in  the  free, 
brave,  personal  way." 

"  I  shall  nevertheless  paint  decently  if  I  can," 
Nick  declared. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  197 

"  I  'm  almost  sorry !  It  will  make  your  case 
less  clear,  your  example  less  grand." 

"  My  example  will  be  grand  enough,  with  the 
fight  I  shall  have  to  make." 

"  The  fight  —  with  whom  ? " 

"  With  myself,  first  of  all.  I  'm  awfully  against 
it." 

"  Ah,  but  you  '11  have  me  on  the  other  side," 
smiled  Nash. 

"  Well,  you  '11  have  more  than  a  handful  to 
meet  —  everything,  every  one  that  belongs  to 
me,  that  touches  me,  near  or  far  ;  my  family,  my 
blood,  my  heredity,  my  traditions,  my  promises, 
my  circumstances,  my  prejudices  ;  my  little  past, 
such  as  it  is  ;  my  great  future,  such  as  it  has  been 
supposed  it  may  be." 

"  I  see,  I  see  ;  it 's  admirable !  "  Nash  ex- 
claimed. "  And  Mrs.  Dallow  into  the  bargain," 
he  added. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Dallow,  if  you  like." 

"  Are  you  in  love  with  her  ? " 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  Well,  she  is  with  you  — so  I  perceived." 

"  Don't  say  that,"  said  Nick  Dormer,  with  sud- 
den sternness. 

"  Ah,  you  are,  you  are  !  "  his  companion  re- 
joined, judging  apparently  from  this  accent. 

"  I  donJ'Xinow-wJiajtJ_amj^Jieave»-fe€lp  me ! " 
Nick  broke  out,  tossing  his  hat  down  on  his  little 
tin  table  with  vehemence.  "  I  'm  a  freak  of  na- 
ture and  a  sport  of  the  mocking  gods  !  Why 


198  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

should  they  go  out  of  their  way  to  worry  me  ? 
Why  should  they  do  everything  so  inconsequent, 
so  improbable,  so  preposterous  ?  It 's  the  vulgar- 
est  practical  joke.  There  has  never  been  any- 
thing of  the  sort  among  us ;  we  are  all  Philistines 
to  the  core,  with  about  as  much  aesthetic  sense 
as  that  hat.  It 's  excellent  soil  —  I  don't  com- 
plain of  it  —  but  not  a  soil  to  grow  that  flower. 
From  where  the  devil,  then,  has  the  seed  been 
dropped  ?  I  look  back  from  generation  to  gen- 
eration ;  I  scour  our  annals  without  finding  the 
least  little  sketching  grandmother,  any  sign  of  a 
building,  or  versifying,  or  collecting,  or  even  tulip- 
raising  ancestor.  They  were  all  as  blind  as  bats, 
and  none  the  less  happy  for  that.  I  'm  a  wanton 
variation,  an  unaccountable  monster.  My  dear 
father,  rest  his  soul,  went  through  life  without  a 
suspicion  that  there  is  anything  in  it  that  can't 
be  boiled  into  blue-books  ;  and  he  became,  in 
that  conviction,  a  very  distinguished  person.  He 
brought  me  up  in  the  same  simplicity,  and  in  the 
hope  of  the  same  eminence.  It  would  have  been 
better  if  I  had  remained  so.  I  think  it 's  partly 
your  fault  that  I  have  n't,"  Nick  went  on.  "  At 
Oxford  you  were  very  bad  company  for  me,  my 
evil  genius  ;  you  opened  my  eyes,  you  communi- 
cated the  poison.  Since  then,  little  by  little,  it 
has  been  working  within  me  ;  vaguely,  covertly, 
insensibly  at  first,  but  during  the  last  year  or 
two  with  violence,  pertinacity,  cruelty.  I  have 
taken  every  antidote  in  life  ;  but  it 's  no  use,  — 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  199 

I  'm  stricken.  It  tears  me  to  pieces,  as  I  may 
say." 

"  I  see,  I  follow  you,"  said  Nash,  who  had  lis- 
tened to  this  recital  with  radiant  interest  and 
curiosity.  "  And  that 's  why  you  are  going  to 
stand." 

"  Precisely  —  it 's  an  antidote.  And,  at  present 
you're  another." 

"  Another  ? " 

"  That 's  why  I  jumped  at  you.  A  bigger  dose 
of  you  may  disagree  with  me  to  that  extent  that 
I  shall  either  die  or  get  better." 

"  I  shall  control  the  dilution."  said  Nash. 
"  Poor  fellow  —  if  you  're  elected  !  "  he  added. 

"  Poor  fellow,  either  way.  You  don't  know  the 
atmosphere  in  which  I  live,  the  horror,  the  scan- 
dal that  my  apostasy  would  inspire,  the  injury  and 
suffering  that  it  would  inflict.  I  believe  it  would 
kill  my  mother.  She  thinks  my  father  is  watch- 
ing me  from  the  skies." 

"Jolly  to  make  him  jump  !  "  Nash  exclaimed. 

"  He  would  jump  indeed ;  he  would  come 
straight  down  on  top  of  me.  And  then  the  gro- 
tesqueness  of  it  —  to  begin,  all  of  a  sudden,  at  my 
age." 

"  It 's  perfect,  indeed  ;  it 's  a  magnificent  case," 
Nash  went  on. 

"  Think  how  it  sounds  —  a  paragraph  in  the 
London  papers :  '  Mr.  Nicholas  Dormer,  M.  P.  for 
Harsh  and  son  of  the  late  Right  Honourable,  and 
so  forth  and  so  forth,  is  about  to  give  up  his  seat 


2OO  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

and  withdraw  from  public  life,  in  order  to  devote 
himself  to  the  practice  of  portrait-painting.  Or- 
ders respectfully  solicited.' " 

"The  nineteenth  century  is  better  than  I 
thought,"  said  Nash.  "  It 's  the  portrait  that 
preoccupies  you  ? " 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  ;  you  must  come,  imme- 
diately, to  my  place  in  London." 

"  You  wretch,  you  're  capable  of  having  tal- 
ent ! "  cried  Nash. 

"  No,  I  'm  too  old,  too  old.  It 's  too  late  to  go 
through  the  mill." 

"  You  make  me  young !  Don't  miss  your 
«^lecH<3n,jat  your  peril.  Think  of  the  edifica- 
tion." 

"  The  edification  ?  " 

"Of  your  throwing  it  all  up  the  next  mo- 
ment." 

"  That  would  be  pleasant  for  Mr.  Carteret," 
Nick  observed. 

"  Mr.  Carteret  ? " 

"  A  dear  old  fellow  who  will  wish  to  pay  my 
agent's  bill." 

"  Serve  him  right,  for  such  depraved  tastes." 

"  You  do  me  good,"  said  Nick,  getting  up  and 
turning  away. 

"  Don't  call  me  useless,  then." 

"  Ah,  but  not  in  the  way  you  mean.  It 's  only 
if  I  don't  get  in  that  I  shall  perhaps  console  my- 
self with  the  brush,"  Nick  continued,  as  they  re- 
traced their  steps. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 


201 


"For  the  sake  of  all  the  Muses,  then,  don't 
stand.     For  you  will  get  in." 

"  Very  likely.     At  any  rate  I  've  promised." 
"  You  've  promised  Mrs.  Dallow  ?  " 
"  It's  her  place  ;  she '"  put  me  in,"  Nick  said. 
"  Baleful  woman !     But  I  '11  pull  you  out ! "      * 


FOR  several  days  Peter  Sherringham  had  busi- 
ness in  hand  which  left  him  neither  time  nor  free- 
dom of  mind  to  occupy  himself  actively  with  the 
ladies  of  the  Hotel  de  la  Garonne.  There  were 
moments  when  they  brushed  across  his  memory, 
but  their  passage  was  rapid  and  not  lighted  up 
with  any  particular  complacency  of  attention  ;  for 
he  shrank  considerably  from  bringing  it  to  the 
proof  —  the  question  of  whether  Miriam  would 
be  an  interest  or  only  a  bore.  She  had  left  him, 
after  their  second  meeting,  with  a  quickened  ex- 
pectation, but  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours  that 
flame  had  burned  dim.  Like  many  other  men, 
Sherringham  was  a  mixture  of  impulse  and  reflec- 
tion ;  but  he  was  peculiar  in  this,  that  thinking 
things  over  almost  always  made  him  think  less 
well  of  them.  He  found  illusions  necessary,  so 
that  in  order  to  keep  an  adequate  number  going 
he  often  earnestly  forbade  himself  that  exercise. 
Mrs.  Rooth  and  her  daughter  were  there  and 
could  certainly  be  trusted  to  make  themselves 
felt.  He  was  conscious  of  their  anxiety,  their 
calculations,  as  of  a  kind  of  oppression,  and  knew 
that,  whatever  results  might  ensue,  he  should 
have  to  do  something  positive  for  them.  An  idea 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  2O3 

of  tenacity,  of  worrying  feminine  duration,  asso- 
ciated itself  with  their  presence ;  he  would  have 
assented,  with  a  silent  nod,  to  the  proposition 
(enunciated  by  Gabriel  Nash)  that  he  was  saddled 
with  them.  Remedies  hovered  before  him,  but 
they  figured  also,  at  the  same  time,  as  complica- 
tions ;  ranging  vaguely  from  the  expenditure  of 
money  to  the  discovery  that  he  was  in  love.  This 
latter  accident  would  be  particularly  tedious  ;  he 
had  a  full  perception  of  the  arts  by  which  the 
girl's  mother  might  succeed  in  making  it  so.  It 
would  not  be  a  compensation  for  trouble,  but  a 
trouble  which  in  itself  would  require  compensa- 
tion. Would  that  balm  spring  from  the  spectacle 
of  the  young  lady's  genius  ?  The  genius  would 
have  to  be  very  great  to  justify  a  rising  young 
diplomatist  in  making  a  fool  of  himself. 

With  the  excuse  of  pressing  work  he  put  off  his 
young  pupil  from  day  to  day,  and  from  day  to 
day  he  expected  to  hear  her  knock  at  his  door. 
It  would  be  time  enough  when  they  came  after 
him ;  and  he  was  unable  to  see  how,  after  all,  he 
could  serve  them  even  then.  He  had  proposed, 
impetuously,  a  course  of  theatres  ;  but  that  would 
be  a  considerable  personal  effort,  now  that  the 
summer  was  about  to  begin,  with  bad  air,  stale 
pieces,  tired  actors.  When,  however,  more  than 
a  week  had  elapsed  without  a  reminder  of  his  ne- 
glected promise,  it  came  over  him  that  he  must 
himself,  in  honor,  give  a  sign.  There  was  a  deli- 
cacy in  such  discretion  —  he  was  touched  by  be- 


2O4  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

ing  let  alone.  The  flurry  of  work  at  the  embassy 
was  over,  and  he  had  time  to  ask  himself  what,  in 
especial,  he  should  do.  He  wished  to  have  some- 
thing definite  to  suggest  before  communicating 
with  the  Hotel  de  la  Garonne. 

As  a  consequence  of  this  speculation  he  went 
back  to  Madame  Carre,  to  ask  her  to  reconsider 
her  unfavorable  judgment  and  give  the  young 
English  lady  —  to  oblige  him  —  a  dozen  lessons 
of  the  sort  that  she  knew  how  to  give.  He  was 
aware  that  this  request  scarcely  stood  on  its  feet ; 
for  in  the  first  place  Madame  Carre  never  recon- 
sidered, when  once  she  had  got  her  impression, 
and  in  the  second  she  never  wasted  herself  on 
subjects  whom  nature  had  not  formed  to  do  her 
honor.  He  knew  that  his  asking  her  to  strain  a 
point  to  please  him  would  give  her  a  false  idea 
(for  that  matter,  she  had  it  already)  of  his  rela- 
tions, actual  or  prospective,  with  the  girl ;  but  he 
reflected  that  he  need  n't  care  for  that,  as  Miriam 
herself  probably  wouldn't  care.  What  he  had 
mainly  in  mind  was  to  say  to  the  old  actress  that 
she  had  been  mistaken  —  ihejeune  Anglaise  was 
not  such  a  duffer.  This  would  take  some  cour- 
age, but  it  would  also  add  to  the  amusement  of 
his  visit. 

He  found  her  at  home,  but  as  soon  as  he  had 
expressed  the  conviction  I  have  mentioned  she 
exclaimed,  "Oh,  your  jeune  Anglaise ;  I  know  a 
great  deal  more  about  her  than  you !  She  has 
been  back  to  see  me  twice  ;  she  does  n't  go  the 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  2O$ 

longest  way  round.  She  charges  me  like  a  gren- 
adier, and  she  asks  me  to  give  her  —  guess  a  lit- 
tle what !  —  private  recitations,  all  to  herself.  If 
she  does  n't  succeed,  it  won't  be  for  want  of  know- 
ing how  to  thump  at  doors.  The  other  day,  when 
I  came  in,  she  was  waiting  for  me  ;  she  had  been 
there  for  an  hour.  My  private  recitations  —  have 
you  an  idea  what  people  pay  for  them  ? " 

"  Between  artists,  you  know,  there  are  easier 
conditions,"  Sherringham  laughed. 

"  How  do  I  know  if  she 's  an  artist  ?  She 
won't  open  her  mouth  to  me ;  what  she  wants  is 
to  make  me  say  things  to  her.  She  does  make 
me  —  I  don't  know  how  —  and  she  sits  there 
gaping  at  me  with  her  big  eyes.  They  look  like 
open  pockets !  " 

"  I  dare  say  she  '11  profit  by  it,"  said  Sherring- 
ham. 

"  I  dare  say  you  will !  Her  face  is  stupid  while 
she  watches  me,  and  when  she  has  tired  me  out 
she  simply  walks  away.  However,  as  she  comes 
back — "  Madame  Carr6  paused  a  moment,  lis- 
tened, and  then  exclaimed,  "  Did  n't  I  tell  you  ? " 

Sherringham  heard  a  parley  of  voices  in  the 
little  antechamber,  and  the  next  moment  the  door 
was  pushed  open  and  Miriam  Rooth  bounded  into 
the  room.  She  was  flushed  and  breathless,  with- 
out a  smile,  very  direct. 

"Will  you  hear  me  to-day?  I  know  four 
things,"  she  immediately  began.  Then,  perceiv- 
ing Sherringham,  she  added  in  the  same  brisk, 


2O6  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

earnest  tone,  as  if  the  matter  were  of  the  highest 
importance,  "  Oh,  how  d'  ye  do  ?  I'm  very  glad 
you  are  here."  She  said  nothing  else  to  him 
than  this,  appealed  to  him  in  no  way,  made  no  al- 
lusion to  his  having  neglected  her,  but  addressed 
herself  entirely  to  Madame  Carre,  as  if  he  had 
not  been  there  ;  making  no  excuses  and  using  no 
flattery  ;  taking  rather  a  tone  of  equal  authority, 
as  if  she  considered  that  the  celebrated  artist  had 
a  sacred  duty  toward  her.  This  was  another 
variation,  Sherringham  thought ;  it  differed  from 
each  of  the  attitudes  in  which  he  had  previously 
seen  her.  It  came  over  him  suddenly  that  so  far 
from  there  being  any  question  of  her  having  the 
histrionic  nature,  she  simply  had  it  in  such  per- 
fection that  she  was  always  acting ;  that  her  ex- 
istence was  a  series  of  parts  assumed  for  the  mo- 
ment, each  changed  for  the  next,  before  the 
perpetual  mirror  of  some  curiosity  or  admiration 
or  wonder  —  some  spectatorship  that  she  per- 
ceived or  imagined  in  the  people  about  her.  In- 
terested as  he  had  ever  been  in  the  profession  of 
which  she  was  potentially  an  ornament,  this  idea 
startled  him  by  its  novelty  and  even  lent,  on  the 
spot,  a  formidable,  a  really  appalling  character  to 
Miriam  Rooth.  It  struck  him,  abruptly,  that  a 
woman  whose  only  being  was  to  "  make  believe," 
to  make  believe  that  she  had  any  and  every  being 
that  you  liked,  that  would  serve  a  purpose,  pro- 
duce a  certain  effect,  and  whose  identity  resided 
in  the  continuity  of  her  personations,  so  that  she 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  2O/ 

had  no  moral  privacy,  as  he  phrased  it  to  himself, 
but  lived  in  a  high  wind  of  exhibition,  of  figura- 
tion—  such  a  woman  was  a  kind  of  monster,  in 
whom  of  necessity  there  would  be  nothing  to 
like,  because  there  would  be  nothing  to  take  hold 
of.  He  felt  for  a  moment  that  he  had  been  very 
simple  not  to  have  achieved  before  that  analysis 
of  the  actress.  The  girl's  very  face  made  it  vivid 
to  him  now  —  the  discovery  that  she  positively 
had  no  countenance  of  her  own,  but  only  the 
countenance  of  the  occasion,  a  sequence,  a  variety 
(capable  possibly  of  becoming  immense),  of  repre- 
sentative movements.  She  was  always  trying 
them,  practicing  them,  for  her  amusement  or 
profit,  jumping  from  one  to  the  other  and  extend- 
ing her  range  ;  and  this  would  doubtless  be  her 
occupation  more  and  more  as  she  acquired  ease 
and  confidence.  The  expression  that  came  near- 
est to  belonging  to  her,  as  it  were,  was  the  one 
that  came  nearest  to  being  a  blank  —  an  air  of 
inanity  when  she  forgot  herself,  watching  some- 
thing. Then  her  eye  was  heavy  and  her  mouth 
rather  common  ;  though  it  was  perhaps  just  at 
such  a  moment  that  the  fine  line  of  her  head  told 
most.  She  had  looked  slightly  bete  even  when 
Sherringham,  on  their  first  meeting  at  Madame 
Carre's,  said  to  Nick  Dormer  that  she  was  the 
image  of  the  Tragic  Muse. 

Now,  at  any  rate,  he  had  the  apprehension  that 
she  might  do  what  she  liked  with  her  face.  It 
was  an  elastic  substance,  an  element  of  gutta- 


2C>8  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

percha,  like  the  flexibility  of  the  gymnast,  the 
lady  who,  at  a  music-hall,  is  shot  from  the  mouth 
of  a  cannon.  He  colored  a  little  at  this  quick- 
ened view  of  the  actress  ;  he  had  always  looked 
more  poetically,  somehow,  at  that  priestess  of 
art.  But  what  was  she,  the  priestess,  when  one 
came  to  think  of  it,  but  a  female  gymnast,  a 
mountebank  at  higher  wages  ?  She  did  n't  lit- 
erally hang  by  her  heels  from  a  trapeze,  holding 
a  fat  man  in  her  teeth,  but  she  made  the  same 
use  of  her  tongue,  of  her  eyes,  of  the  imitative 
trick,  that  her  muscular  sister  made  of  leg  and 
jaw.  It  was  an  odd  circumstance  that  Miriam 
Rooth's  face  seemed  to  him  to-day  a  finer  instru- 
ment than  old  Madame  Carre's.  It  was  doubt- 
less that  the  girl's  was  fresh  and  strong,  with  a 
future  in  it,  while  poor  Madame  Carre's  was  worn 
and  weary,  with  only  a  past. 

The  old  woman  said  something,  half  in  jest, 
half  in  real  resentment,  about  the  brutality  of 
youth,  as  Miriam  went  to  a  mirror  and  quickly 
took  off  her  hat,  patting  and  arranging  her  hair, 
as  a  preliminary  to  making  herself  heard.  Sher- 
ringham  saw,  with  surprise  and  amusement,  that 
the  clever  Frenchwoman,  who  had  in  her  long 
life  exhausted  every  adroitness,  was  in  a  manner 
helpless,  condemned,  both  protesting  and  con- 
senting. Miriam  had  taken  but  a  few  days  and 
a  couple  of  visits  to  become  a  successful  force ; 
she  had  imposed  herself,  and  Madame  Carre, 
while  she  laughed  (yet  looked  terrible  too,  with 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  2OQ 

artifices  of  eye  and  gesture),  was  reduced  to  the 
last  line  of  defense  —  that  of  declaring  her  coarse 
and  clumsy,  saying  she  might  knock  her  down, 
but  that  proved  nothing.  She  spoke  jestingly 
enough  not  to  offend  Miriam,  but  her  manner 
betrayed  the  irritation  of  an  intelligent  woman 
who,  at  an  advanced  age,  found  herself  for  the 
first  time  failing  to  understand.  What  she  did  n't 
understand  was  the  kind  of  social  product  that 
had  been  presented  to  her  by  Gabriel  Nash ;  and 
this  suggested  to  Sherringham  that  the  j'eune 
Anglaise  was  perhaps  indeed  rare,  a  new  type, 
as  Madame  Carre  must  have  seen  innumerable 
varieties.  He  guessed  that  the  girl  was  perfectly 
prepared  to  be  abused  and  that  her  indifference 
to  what  might  be  thought  of  her  discretion  was  a 
proof  of  life,  health,  and  spirit,  the  insolence  of 
conscious  power. 

When  she  had  given  herself  a  touch  at  the 
glass  she  turned  round,  with  a  rapid  "  Ecotites 
maintenant ! "  and  stood  leaning  a  moment, 
slightly  lowered  and  inclined  backward,  with  her 
hands  behind  her  and  supporting  her,  on  the 
table  in  front  of  the  mirror.  She  waited  an  in- 
stant, turning  her  eyes  from  one  of  her  com- 
panions to  the  other,  as  if  she  were  taking 
possession  of  them  (an  eminently  conscious,  in- 
tentional proceeding,  which  made  Sherringham 
ask  himself  what  had  become  of  her  former  terror 
and  whether  that  and  her  tears  had  all  been  a 
comedy)  :  after  which,  abruptly  straightening 


210  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

herself,  she  began  to  repeat  a  short  French  poem, 
a  composition  modern  and  delicate,  one  of  the 
things  she  had  induced  Madame  Carre  to  say 
over  to  her.  She  had  learned  it,  practiced  it,  re- 
hearsed it  to  her  mother,  and  now  she  had  been 
childishly  eager  to  show  what  she  could  do  with 
it.  What  she  mainly  did  was  to  reproduce  with 
a  crude  fidelity,  but  with  extraordinary  memory, 
the  intonations,  the  personal  quavers  and  ca- 
dences of  her  model. 

"  How  bad  you  make  me  seem  to  myself,  and 
if  I  were  you  how  much  better  I  should  say  it  !  " 
was  Madame  Carre's  first  criticism. 

Miriam  allowed  her  little  time  to  develop  this 
idea,  for  she  broke  out,  at  the  shortest  intervals, 
with  the  five  other  specimens  of  verse  to  which 
the  old  actress  had  handed  her  the  key.  They 
were  all  delicate  lyrics,  of  tender  or  pathetic  inten- 
tion, by  contemporary  poets  —  all  things  demand- 
ing perfect  taste  and  art,  a  mastery  of  tone,  of 
insinuation,  in  the  interpreter.  Miriam  had  gob- 
bled them  up,  and  she  gave  them  forth  in  the  same 
way  as  the  first,  with  close,  rude,  audacious  mim- 
icry. There  was  a  moment  when  Sherringham 
was  afraid  Madame  Carre"  would  think  she  was 
making  fun  of  her  manner,  her  celebrated  sim- 
pers and  grimaces,  so  extravagant  did  the  girl's 
performance  cause  these  refinements  to  appear. 

When  she  had  finished,  the  old  woman  said, 
"  Should  you  like  now  to  hear  how  you  do  it  ? " 
and,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  phrased  and 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  211 

trilled  the  last  of  the  pieces,  from  beginning  to 
end,  exactly  as  Miriam  had  done,  making  this 
imitation  of  an  imitation  the  drollest  thing  con- 
ceivable. If  she  had  been  annoyed  it  was  a 
perfect  revenge.  Miriam  had  dropped  on  a  sofa, 
exhausted,  and  she  stared  at  first,  looking  flushed 
and  wild ;  then  she  gave  way  to  merriment, 
laughing  with  a  high  sense  of  comedy.  She  said 
afterwards,  to  defend  herself,  that  the  verses  in 
question,  and  indeed  all  those  she  had  recited, 
were  of  the  most  difficult  sort :  you  had  to  do 
them  ;  they  did  n't  do  themselves  —  they  were 
things  in  which  the  gros  moyens  were  of  no  avail. 
"  Ah,  my  poor  child,  your  means  are  all  gros 
moyens ;  you  appear  to  have  no  others,"  Madame 
Carre  replied.  "  You  do  what  you  can,  but  there 
are  people  like  that  ;  it 's  the  way  they  are  made. 
They  can  never  come  nearer  to  the  delicate  ; 
shades  don't  exist  for  them,  they  don't  see  cer- 
tain differences.  It  was  to  show  you  a  difference 
that  I  repeated  that  thing  as  you  repeat  it,  as 
you  represent  my  doing  it.  If  you  are  struck 
with  the  little  the  two  ways  have  in  common,  so 
much  the  better.  But  you  seem  to  me  to  coarsen 
everything  you  touch." 

Sherringham  thought  this  judgment  harsh  to 
cruelty,  and  perceived  that  Miss  Rooth  had  the 
power  to  set  the  teeth  of  her  instructress  on 
edge.  She  acted  on  her  nerves ;  she  was  made 
of  a  thick,  rough  substance  which  the  old  woman 
was  not  accustomed  to  manipulate.  This  exas- 


212  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

peration,  however,  was  a  kind  of  flattery ;  it  was 
neither  indifference  nor  simple  contempt  ;  it 
acknowledged  a  mystifying  reality  in  the  girl  and 
even  a  degree  of  importance.  Miriam  remarked, 
serenely  enough,  that  the  things  she  wanted  most 
to  do  were  just  those  that  were  not  for  the  gros 
moyens,  the  vulgar  obvious  dodges,  the  starts 
and  shouts,  that  any  one  could  think  of  and  that 
the  gros  public  liked.  She  wanted  to  do  what 
was  most  difficult  and  to  plunge  into  it  from  the 
first;  and  she  explained,  as  if  it  were  a  discov- 
ery of  her  own,  that  there  were  two  kinds  of 
scenes  and  speeches :  those  which  acted  them- 
selves, of  which  the  treatment  was  plain,  the  only 
way,  so  that  you  had  just  to  take  it ;  and  those 
which  were  open  to  interpretation,  with  which 
you  had  to  fight  every  step,  rendering,  arranging, 
doing  it  according  to  your  idea.  Some  of  the 
most  effective  things,  and  the  most  celebrated 
and  admired,  like  the  frenzy  of  Juliet  with  her 
potion,  were  of  the  former  sort ;  but  it  was  the 
others  she  liked  best 

Madame  Carre*  received  this  revelation  good- 
naturedly  enough,  considering  its  want  of  fresh- 
ness, and  only  laughed  at  the  young  lady  for 
looking  so  nobly  patronizing  while  she  gave  it. 
It  was  clear  that  her  laughter  was  partly  ded- 
icated to  the  good  faith  with  which  Miriam  de- 
scribed herself  as  preponderantly  interested  in 
the  subtler  problems  of  her  art.  Sherringham 
was  charmed  with  the  girl's  pluck  —  if  it  was 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  213 

pluck  and  not  mere  density  —  the  brightness 
with  which  she  submitted,  for  a  purpose,  to  the 
old  woman's  rough  usage.  He  wanted  to  take 
her  away,  to  give  her  a  friendly  caution,  to  advise 
her  not  to  become  a  bore,  not  to  expose  herself. 
But  she  held  up  her  beautiful  head  in  a  way  that 
showed  she  did  n't  care  at  present  how  she  ex- 
posed herself,  and  that  (it  was  half  coarseness  — 
Madame  Carre  was  so  far  right — and  half  for- 
titude) she  had  no  intention  of  coming  away  so 
long  as  there  was  anything  to  be  picked  up.  She 
sat,  and  still  she  sat,  challenging  her  hostess  with 
every  sort  of  question  —  some  reasonable,  some 
ingenious,  some  strangely  futile  and  some  highly 
indiscreet ;  but  all  with  the  effect  that,  contrary 
to  Sherringham's  expectation,  Madame  Carre" 
warmed  to  the  work  of  answering  and  explaining, 
became  interested,  was  content  to  keep  her  and 
to  talk.  Yet  she  took  her  ease;  she  relieved 
herself,  with  the  rare  cynicism  of  the  artist,  all 
the  crudity,  the  irony  and  intensity  of  a  discus- 
sion of  esoteric  things,  of  personal  mysteries,  of 
methods  and  secrets.  It  was  the  oddest  hour 
Sherringham  had  ever  spent,  even  in  the  course 
of  investigation  which  had  often  led  him  into  the 
cuisine,  as  the  French  called  it,  the  distillery  or 
back-shop,  of  the  admired  profession.  He  got 
up  several  times  to  come  away ;  then  he  re- 
mained, partly  in  order  not  to  leave  Miriam  alone 
with  her  terrible  initiatress,  partly  because  he 
was  both  amused  and  edified,  and  partly  because 


214  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

Madame  Carre"  held  him  by  the  appeal  of  her 
sharp,  confidential  old  eyes,  addressing  her  talk 
to  him,  with  Miriam  as  a  subject,  a  vile  illustra- 
tion. She  undressed  this  young  lady,  as  it  were, 
from  head  to  foot,  turned  her  inside  out,  weighed 
and  measured  and  sounded  her :  it  was  all,  for 
Sherringham,  a  new  revelation  of  the  point  to 
which,  in  her  profession  and  nation,  a  ferocious 
analysis  had  been  carried,  with  an  intelligence  of 
the  business  and  a  special  vocabulary.  What 
struck  him,  above  all,  was  the  way  she  knew  her 
reasons  and  everything  was  sharp  and  clear  in 
her  mind  and  lay  under  her  hand.  If  she  had 
rare  perceptions  she  had  traced  them  to  their 
source  ;  she  could  give  an  account  of  what  she 
did  ;  she  knew  perfectly  why ;  she  could  explain 
it,  defend  it,  amplify  it,  fight  for  it :  and  all  this 
was  an  intellectual  joy  to  her,  allowing  her  a 
chance  to  abound  and  insist  and  be  clever.  There 
was  a  kind  of  cruelty,  or  at  least  of  hardness  in 
it  all,  to  Sherringham's  English  sense,  that  sense 
which  can  never  really  reconcile  itself  to  the 
question  of  execution  and  has  extraneous  senti- 
ments to  placate  with  compromises  and  super- 
ficialities, frivolities  that  have  often  a  pleasant 
moral  fragrance.  In  theory  there  was  nothing 
that  he  valued  more  than  just  such  a  logical  pas- 
sion as  Madame  Carre's  ;  but  in  fact,  when  he 
found  himself  in  close  quarters  with  it,  it  was  apt 
to  seem  to  him  an  ado  about  nothing. 

If  the  old  woman  was  hard  it  was   not  that 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  215 

many  of  her  present  conclusions,  as  regards  Mir- 
iam, were  not  indulgent,  but  that  she  had  a  vis- 
ion of  the  great  manner,  of  right  and  wrong,  of 
the  just  and  the  false,  so  high  and  religious  that 
the  individual  was  nothing  before  it  —  a  prompt 
and  easy  sacrifice.  It  made  Sherringham  uncom- 
fortable, as  he  had  been  made  uncomfortable  by 
certain  feuillctons,  reviews  of  the  theatres  in  the 
Paris  newspapers,  which  he  was  committed  to 
thinking  important,  but  of  which,  when  they  were 
very  good,  he  was  rather  ashamed.  When  they 
were  very  good,  that  is  when  they  were  very  thor- 
ough, they  were  very  personal,  as  was  inevitable 
in  dealing  with  the  most  personal  of  the  arts  : 
they  went  into  details  ;  they  put  the  dots  on  the 
/'s ;  they  discussed,  impartially,  the  qualities  of 
appearance,  the  physical  gifts  of  the  actor  or 
actress,  finding  them  in  some  cases  reprehensibly 
inadequate.  Sherringham  could  not  rid  himself  of 
a  prejudice  against  these  pronouncements;  in  the 
case  of  the  actresses  especially  they  appeared  to 
him  brutal  and  indelicate  —  unmanly  as  coming 
from  a  critic  sitting  smoking  in  his  chair.  At  the 
same  time  he  was  aware  of  the  dilemma  (he  hated 
it ;  it  made  him  blush  still  more)  in  which  his 
objection  lodged  him.  If  one  was  right  in  liking 
the  actor's  art,  one  ought  to  have  been  interested 
in  every  candid  criticism  of  it,  which,  given  the 
peculiar  conditions,  would  be  legitimate  in  pro- 
portion as  it  should  be  minute.  If  the  criticism 
that  recognized  frankly  these  conditions  seemed 


2l6  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

an  inferior  or  an  offensive  thing,  then  what  was 
to  be  said  for  the  art  itself  ?  What  an  implica- 
tion, if  the  criticism  was  tolerable  only  so  long  as 
it  was  worthless  —  so  long  as  it  remained  vague 
and  timid  !  This  was  a  knot  which  Sherringham 
had  never  straightened  out:  he  contented  him- 
self with  saying  that  there  was  no  reason  a  theat- 
rical critic  should  n't  be  a  gentleman,  at  the  same 
time  that  he  often  remarked  that  it  was  an  odious 
trade,  which  no  gentleman  could  possibly  follow. 
The  best  of  the  fraternity,  so  conspicuous  in 
Paris,  were  those  who  did  n't  follow  it  —  those 
who,  while  pretending  to  write  about  the  stage, 
wrote  about  everything  else. 

It  was  as  if  Madame  Carr6,  in  pursuance  of  her 
inflamed  sense  that  the  art  was  everything  and 
the  individual  nothing,  save  as  he  happened  to 
serve  it,  had  said,  "  Well,  if  she  will  have  it  she 
shall  ;  she  shall  know  what  she  is  in  for,  what  I 
went  through,  battered  and  broken  in  as  we  all 
have  been — all  who  are  worthy,  who  have  had 
the  honor.  She  shall  know  the  real  point  of 
view."  It  was  as  if  she  were  still  haunted  with 
Mrs.  Rooth's  nonsense,  her  hypocrisy,  her  scru- 
ples —  something  she  felt  a  need  to  belabor,  to 
trample  on.  Miriam  took  it  all  as  a  bath,  a  bap- 
tism, with  passive  exhilaration  and  gleeful  shiv- 
ers ;  staring,  wondering,  sometimes  blushing  and 
failing  to  follow,  but  not  shrinking  nor  wounded  ; 
laughing,  when  it  was  necessary,  at  her  own  ex- 
pense and  feeling  evidently  that  this  at  last  was 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE,  2 1/ 

the  air  of  the  profession,  an  initiation  which  noth- 
ing could  undo.  Sherringham  said  to  her  that 
he  would  see  her  home  —  that  he  wanted  to  talk 
to  her  and  she  must  walk  away  with  him.  "  And 
it's  understood,  then,  she  may  come  back,"  he 
added  to  Madame  Carre\  "  It 's  my  affair,  of 
course.  You  '11  take  an  interest  in  her  for  a 
month  or  two  ;  she  will  sit  at  your  feet" 

"  Oh,  I  '11  knock  her  about ;  she  seems  stout 
enough  ! "  said  the  old  actress. 


XI. 

WHEN  she  had  descended  into  the  street  with 
Sherringham,  Miriam  informed  him  that  she  was 
thirsty,  dying  to  drink  something  :  upon  which 
he  asked  her  if  she  would  have  any  objection  to 
going  with  him  to  a  cafe. 

"  Objection  ?  I  have  spent  my  life  in  cafe's  !  " 
she  exclaimed.  "  They  are  warm  in  winter,  and 
they  are  full  of  gaslight.  Mamma  and  I  have  sat 
in  them  for  hours,  many  a  time,  with  a  consent* 
mation  of  three  sous,  to  save  fire  and  candles  at 
home.  We  have  lived  in  places  we  could  n't  sit 
in,  if  you  want  to  know  —  where  there  was  only 
really  room  if  we  were  in  bed.  Mamma's  money 
is  sent  out  from  England,  and  sometimes  it  did  n't 
come.  Once  it  didn't  come  for  months  —  for 
months  and  months.  I  don't  know  how  we  lived. 
There  was  n't  any  to  come ;  there  was  n't  any 
to  get  home.  That  is  n't  amusing  when  you  're 
away,  in  a  foreign  town,  without  any  friends. 
Mamma  used  to  borrow,  but  people  would  n't  al- 
ways lend.  You  need  n't  be  afraid  —  she  won't 
borrow  from  you.  We  are  rather  better  now. 
Something  has  been  done  in  England;  I  don't 
understand  what.  It 's  only  fivepence  a  year,  but 
it  has  been  settled ;  it  comes  regularly  ;  it  used  to 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  2l<) 

come  only  when  we  had  written  and  begged  and 
waited.  But  it  made  no  difference  ;  mamma  was 
always  up  to  her  ears  in  books.  They  served  her 
for  food  and  drink.  When  she  had  nothing  to 
eat  she  began  a  novel  in  ten  volumes  —  the  old- 
fashioned  ones  ;  they  lasted  longest.  She  knows 
every  cabinet  de  lecture  in  every  town  ;  the  little 
cheap,  shabby  ones,  I  mean,  in  the  back  streets, 
where  they  have  odd  volumes  and  only  ask  a 
sou,  and  the  books  are  so  old  that  they  smell  bad. 
She  takes  them  to  the  cafes  —  the  little  cheap, 
shabby  cafes,  too  —  and  she  reads  there  all  the 
evening.  That 's  very  well  for  her,  but  it  does  n't 
feed  me.  I  don't  like  a  diet  of  dirty  old  novels. 
I  sit  there  beside  her,  with  nothing  to  do,  not 
even  a  stocking  to  mend  ;  she  does  n't  think 
that's  comme  il faut.  I  don't  know  what  the 
people  take  me  for.  However,  we  have  never 
been  spoken  to :  any  one  can  see  mamma 's  a 
lady.  As  for  me,  I  dare  say  I  might  be  any- 
thing. If  you  're  going  to  be  an  actress  you  must 
get  used  to  being  looked  at.  There  were  people 
in  England  who  used  to  ask  us  to  stay ;  some  of 
them  were  our  cousins  —  or  mamma  says  they 
were.  I  have  never  been  very  clear  about  our 
cousins,  and  I  don't  think  they  were  at  all  clear 
about  us.  Some  of  them  are  dead;  the  others 
don't  ask  us  any  more.  You  should  hear  mamma 
on  the  subject  of  our  visits  in  England.  It's 
very  convenient  when  your  cousins  are  dead, 
because  that  explains  everything.  Mamma  has 


22O  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

delightful  phrases  :  '  My  family  is  almost  extinct.' 
Then  your  family  may  have  been  anything  you 
like.  Ours,  of  course,  was  magnificent.  We  did 
stay  in  a  place  once  where  there  was  a  deer-park, 
and  also  private  theatricals.  I  played  in  them ; 
I  was  only  fifteen  years  old,  but  I  was  very  big 
and  I  thought  I  was  in  heaven.  I  will  go  any- 
where you  like  ;  you  need  n't  be  afraid,  we  have 
been  in  places  !  I  have  learned  a  great  deal  that 
way  ;  sitting  beside  mamma  and  watching  people, 
their  faces,  their  types,  their  movements.  There 's 
a  great  deal  goes  on  in  cafes  :  people  come  to 
them  to  talk  things  over,  their  private  affairs, 
their  complications  ;  they  have  important  meet- 
ings. Oh,  I've  observed  scenes,  between  men 
and  women  —  very  quiet,  terribly  quiet,  but 
tragic  !  Once  I  saw  a  woman  do  something  that 
I  *m  going  to  do  some  day,  when  I  'm  great  —  if 
I  can  get  the  situation.  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is 
some  day  ;  I  '11  do  it  for  you.  Oh,  it  is  the  book 
of  life!" 

So  Miriam  discoursed,  familiarly,  disconnect- 
edly, as  the  pair  went  their  way  down  the  Rue 
de  Constantinople ;  and  she  continued  to  abound 
in  anecdote  and  remark  after  they  were  seated, 
face  to  face,  at  a  little  marble  table  in  an  estab- 
lishment which  Sherringham  selected  carefully 
and  he  had  caused  her,  at  her  request,  to  be  ac- 
commodated with  sirop  d?  orgeat.  "  I  know  what 
it  will  come  to :  Madame  Carrd  will  want  to  keep 
me."  This  was  one  of  the  announcements  she 
presently  made. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  221 

"To  keep  you?" 

"  For  the  French  stage.  She  won't  want  to 
let  you  have  me."  She  said  things  of  that  kind, 
astounding  in  self-complacency,  the  assumption 
of  quick  success.  She  was  in  earnest,  evidently 
prepared  to  work,  but  her  imagination  flew  over 
preliminaries  and  probations,  took  no  account  of 
the  steps  in  the  process,  especially  the  first  tire- 
some ones,  the  test  of  patience.  Sherringham 
had  done  nothing  for  her  as  yet,  given  no  sub- 
stantial pledge  of  interest ;  yet  she  was  already 
talking  as  if  his  protection  were  assured  and 
jealous.  Certainly,  however,  she  seemed  to  be- 
long to  him  very  much  indeed,  as  she  sat  facing 
him  in  the  Paris  cafe,  in  her  youth,  her  beauty 
and  her  talkative  confidence.  This  degree  of 
possession  was  highly  agreeable  to  him,  and  he 
asked  nothing  more  than  to  make  it  last  and  go 
further.  The  impulse  to  draw  her  out  was  irre- 
sistible, to  encourage  her  to  show  herself  to  the 
end  ;  for  if  he  was  really  destined  to  take  her 
career  in  hand  he  counted  on  some  pleasant 
equivalent  —  such,  for  instance,  as  that  she 
should  at  least  amuse  him. 

"  It 's  very  singular  ;  I  know  nothing  like  it," 
he  said  —  "  your  equal  mastery  of  two  lan- 
guages." 

"  Say  of  half  a  dozen,"  Miriam  smiled. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  believe  in  the  others,  to  the  same 
degree.  I  don't  imagine  that,  with  all  deference 
to  your  undeniable  facility,  you  would  be  judged 


222  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

fit  to  address  a  German  or  an  Italian  audience 
in  their  own  tongue.  But  you  might  a  French, 
perfectly,  and  they  are  the  most  particular  of  all ; 
for  their  idiom  is  supersensitive,  and  they  are 
incapable  of  enduring  the  baragouinage  of  for- 
eigners, to  which  we  listen  with  such  compla- 
cency. In  fact,  your  French  is  better  than  your 
English  —  it 's  more  conventional ;  there  are  little 
queernesses  and  impurities  in  your  English,  as  if 
you  had  lived  abroad  too  much.  Ah,  you  must 
work  that." 

"  I  '11  work  it  with  you.  I  like  the  way  you 
speak." 

"  You  must  speak  beautifully ;  you  must  do 
something  for  the  standard." 

"  For  the  standard  ? " 

"  There  is  n't  any,  after  all ;  it  has  gone  to  the 
dogs." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  bring  it  back.  I  know  what  you 
mean." 

"  No  one  knows,  no  one  cares ;  the  sense  is 
gone  —  it  is  n't  in  the  public,"  Sherringham  con- 
tinued, ventilating  a  grievance  he  was  rarely  able 
to  forget,  the  vision  of  which  now  suddenly  made 
a  mission,  full  of  sanctity,  for  Miriam  Rooth. 
"  Purity  of  speech,  on  our  stage,  does  n't  exist. 
Every  one  speaks  as  he  likes,  and  audiences 
never  notice ;  it 's  the  last  thing  they  think  of. 
The  place  is  given  up  to  abominable  dialects  and 
individual  tricks,  any  vulgarity  flourishes,  and  on 
top  of  it  all  the  Americans,  with  every  conceiv- 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  22$ 

able  crudity,  come  in  to  make  confusion  worse 
confounded.  And  when  one  laments  it  people 
stare  ;  they  don't  know  what  one  means." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  grand  manner,  certain  pom- 
pous pronunciations,  the  style  of  the  Kembles  ?  " 

"  I  mean  any  style  that  is  a  style,  that  is  a  sys- 
tem, an  art,  that  contributes  a  positive  beauty  to 
utterance.  When  I  pay  ten  shillings  to  hear  you 
speak,  I  want  you  to  know  how,  que  diable  !  Say 
that  to  people  and  they  are  mostly  lost  in  stupor  ; 
only  a  few,  the  very  intelligent  ones,  exclaim  : 
1  Then  do  you  want  actors  to  be  affected  ? ' >: 

"  And  do  you  ?  "  asked  Miriam,  full  of  interest 

"  My  poor  child,  what  else,  under  the  sun, 
should  they  be  ?  Is  n't  their  whole  art  the  affec- 
tation par  excellence?  The  public  won't  stand 
that  to-day,  so  one  hears  it  said.  If  that  be  true, 
it  simply  means  that  the  theatre,  as  I  care  for  it, 
that  is  as  a  personal  art,  is  at  an  end." 

"  Never,  never,  never ! "  the  girl  cried,  in  a 
voice  that  made  a  dozen  people  look  round. 

"  I  sometimes  think  it  —  that  the  personal  art 
is  at  an  end,  and  that  henceforth  we  shall  have 
only  the  arts  —  capable,  no  doubt,  of  immense 
development  in  their  way  (indeed  they  have  al- 
ready reached  it)  —  of  the  stage-carpenter  and 
the  costumer.  In  London  the  drama  is  already 
smothered  in  scenery  ;  the  interpretation  scram- 
bles off  as  it  can.  To  get  the  old  personal  im- 
pression, which  used  to  be  everything,  you 
must  go  to  the  poor  countries,  and  most  of  all 
to  Italy." 


224  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Oh,  I  Ve  had  it ;  it 's  very  personal !  "  said 
Miriam,  knowingly. 

"  You  've  seen  the  nudity  of  the  stage,  the  poor 
painted,  tattered  screen  behind,  and  in  the  empty 
space  the  histrionic  figure,  doing  everything  it 
knows  how,  in  complete  possession.  The  per- 
sonality is  n't  our  English  personality,  and  it  may 
not  always  carry  us  with  it ;  but  the  direction  is 
right,  and  it  has  the  superiority  that  it 's  a  human 
exhibition,  not  a  mechanical  one." 

"I  can  act  just  like  an  Italian,"  said  Miriam, 
eagerly. 

"  I  would  rather  you  acted  like  an  English- 
woman, if  an  Englishwoman  would  only  act." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  show  you  !  " 

"  But  you  're  not  English,"  said  Sherringham, 
sociably,  with  his  arms  on  the  table. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  you  should  hear  mamma 
about  our  '  race.'  " 

"  You  're  a  Jewess  —  I  'm  sure  of  that,"  Sher- 
ringham went  on. 

She  jumped  at  this,  as  he  was  destined  to  see, 
later,  that  she  would  jump  at  anything  that  would 
make  her  more  interesting  or  striking  ;  even  at 
things  which,  grotesquely,  contradicted  or  ex- 
cluded each  other.  "  That 's  always  possible,  if 
one 's  clever.  I  'm  very  willing,  because  I  want 
to  be  the  English  Rachel." 

"Then  you  must  leave  Madame  Carr6,  as  soon 
as  you  have  got  from  her  what  she  can  give." 

"  Oh,  you  need  n't  fear  ;  you  sha'n't  lose  me," 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  22$ 

the  girl  replied,  with  gross,  charming  fatuity. 
"  My  name  is  Jewish,"  she  went  on,  "  but  it  was 
that  of  my  grandmother,  my  father's  mother.  She 
was  a  baroness,  in  Germany.  That  is,  she  was 
the  daughter  of  a  baron." 

Sherringham  accepted  this  statement  with  res- 
ervations, but  he  replied,  "  Put  all  that  together, 
and  it  makes  you  very  sufficiently  of  Rachel's 
tribe." 

"  I  don't  care,  if  I  'm  of  her  tribe  artistically. 
I  'm  of  the  family  of  the  artists ;  je  me  fiche  of 
any  other  !  I  'm  in  the  same  style  as  that  wo- 
man ;  I  know  it." 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  had  seen  her,"  said  Sher- 
ringham, amused  at  the  way  she  talked  of  "  that 
woman." 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  about  her ;  I  know  all  about 
all  the  great  actors.  But  that  won't  prevent  me 
from  speaking  divine  English." 

"  You  must  learn  lots  of  verse  ;  you  must  re- 
peat it  to  me,"  Sherringham  went  on.  "  You 
must  break  yourself  in  till  you  can  say  anything. 
You  must  learn  passages  of  Milton,  passages  of 
Wordsworth." 

"  Did  they  write  plays  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  is  n't  only  a  matter  of  plays  !  You 
can't  speak  a  part  properly  till  you  can  speak 
everything  else,  anything  that  comes  up,  espe- 
cially in  proportion  as  it 's  difficult.  That  gives 
you  authority." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  'm  going  in  for  authority.     There 's 


226  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

more  chance  in  English,"  the  girl  added,  in  the 
next  breath.  "  There  are  not  so  many  others  — 
the  terrible  competition.  There  are  so  many  here 
—  not  that  I  'm  afraid,"  she  chattered  on.  "  But 
we '  ve  got  America,  and  they  have  n't.  America 's 
a  great  place." 

"You  talk  like  a  theatrical  agent.  They're 
lucky  not  to  have  it  as  we  have  it.  Some  of 
them  do  go,  and  it  ruins  them." 

"  Why,  it  fills  their  pockets  !  "  Miriam  cried. 

"  Yes,  but  see  what  they  pay.  It 's  the  death 
of  an  actor  to  play  to  big  populations  that  don't 
understand  his  language.  It 's  nothing  then  but 
the  gros  moyens  ;  all  his  delicacy  perishes.  How- 
ever, they  '11  understand  you'' 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  be  too  affected,"  said  Miriam. 

"  You  won't  be  more  so  than  Garrick,  or  Mrs. 
Siddons,  or  John  Kemble,  or  Edmund  Kean. 
They  understood  Edmund  Kean.  All  reflection 
is  affectation,  and  all  acting  is  reflection." 

"I  don't  know;  mine  is  instinct,"  Miriam  re- 
plied. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  you  talk  of '  yours  ; '  but 
don't  be  offended  if  I  tell  you  that  yours  does  n't 
exist.  Some  day  it  will,  if  it  comes  off.  Madame 
Carre's  does,  because  she  has  reflected.  The 
talent,  the  desire,  the  energy  are  an  instinct ; 
but  by  the  time  these  things  become  a  perform- 
ance they  are  an  instinct  put  in  its  place." 

"  Madame  Carre  is  very  philosophic.  I  shall 
never  be  like  her." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  22/ 

"  Of  course  you  won't ;  you  '11  be  original.  But 
you  '11  have  your  own  ideas." 

"  I  dare  say  I  shall  have  a  good  many  of 
yours,"  said  Miriam,  smiling  across  the  table. 

They  sat  a  moment,  looking  at  each  other. 

"Don't  go  in  for  coquetry;  it's  a  waste  of 
time." 

"  Well,  that 's  civil !  "  the  girl  cried. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  for  me ;  I  mean  for  your- 
self. I  want  you  to  be  so  concentrated.  I  am 
bound  to  give  you  good  advice.  You  don't  strike 
me  as  flirtatious  and  that  sort  of  thing,  and  that 's 
in  your  favor." 

"  In  my  favor  ? " 

"It  does  save  time." 

"  Perhaps  it  saves  too  much.  Don't  you  think 
the  artist  ought  to  have  passions  ?" 

Sherringham  hesitated  a  moment ;  he  thought 
an  examination  of  this  question  premature. 
"  Flirtations  are  not  passions,"  he  replied.  "  No, 
you  are  simple  —  at  least  I  suspect  you  are  ;  for 
of  course,  with  a  woman,  one  would  be  clever  to 
know." 

She  asked  why  he  pronounced  her  simple,  but 
he  judged  it  best,  and  more  consonant  with  fair 
play,  to  defer  even  a  treatment  of  this  branch  of 
the  question  ;  so  that,  to  change  the  subject,  he 
said :  "  Be  sure  you  don't  betray  me  to  your  friend 
Mr.  Nash." 

"  Betray  you  ?  Do  you  mean  about  jour  rec- 
ommending affectation  ? " 


228  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Dear  me,  no ;  he  recommends  it  himself. 
That  is,  he  practices  it,  and  on  a  scale  !  " 

"  But  he  makes  one  hate  it." 

"He  proves  what  I  mean,"  said  Sherringham  : 
"  that  the  great  comedian  is  the  one  who  raises 
it  to  a  science.  If  we  paid  ten  shillings  to  listen 
to  Mr.  Nash  we  should  think  him  very  fine.  But 
we  want  to  know  what  it 's  supposed  to  be." 

"  It 's  too  odious,  the  way  he  talks  about  us  !  " 
Miriam  cried,  assentingly. 

"  About  '  us  '  ?  " 

"Us  poor  actors." 

"  It 's  the  competition  he  dislikes,"  said  Sher- 
ringham, laughing. 

"  However,  he 's  very  good-natured ;  he  lent 
mamma  thirty  pounds,"  the  girl  added,  honestly. 
Sherringham,  at  this  information,  was  not  able  to 
repress  a  certain  small  twinge  which  his  compan- 
ion perceived  and  of  which  she  appeared  to  mis- 
take the  meaning.  "Of  course  he  '11  get  it  back," 
she  went  on,  while  Sherringham  looked  at  her  in 
silence  for  a  minute.  Fortune  had  not  supplied 
him  profusely  with  money,  but  his  emotion  was 
not  caused  by  the  apprehension  that  he  too  would 
probably  have  to  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  for 
Mrs.  Rooth.  It  was  simply  the  instinctive  recoil 
of  a  fastidious  nature  from  the  idea  of  familiar 
intimacy  with  people  who  lived  from  hand  to 
mouth,  and  a  sense  that  that  intimacy  would  have 
to  be  defined  if  it  was  to  go  much  further.  He 
would  wish  to  know  what  it  was  supposed  to  be, 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  22Q 

like  Gabriel  Nash's  histrionics.  After  a  moment 
Miriam  mistook  his  thought  still  more  completely, 
and  in  doing  so  gave  him  a  flash  of  fore-knowl- 
edge of  the  way  it  was  in  her  to  strike  from  time 
to  time  a  note  exasperatingly,  almost  consciously 
vulgar,  which  one  would  hate  for  the  reason, 
among  others,  that  by  that  time  one  would  be  in 
love  with  her.  "  Well,  then,  he  won't  —  if  you 
don't  believe  it ! "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh. 
He  was  saying  to  himself  that  the  only  possible 
form  was  that  they  should  borrow  only  from  him. 
"  You  're  a  funny  man.  I  make  you  blush,"  Mir- 
iam persisted. 

"  I  must  reply  with  the  tu  quoque,  though  I 
have  not  that  effect  on  you." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  the  girl. 

"You  're  an  extraordinary  young  lady." 

"  You  mean  I  'm  horrid.  Well,  I  dare  say  I 
am.  But  I  'm  better  when  you  know  me." 

Sherringham  made  no  direct  rejoinder  to  this, 
but  after  a  moment  he  said,  "  Your  mother  must 
repay  that  money.  I  '11  give  it  to  her." 

"  You  had  better  give  it  to  him  !  "  cried  Mir- 
iam. "  If  once  we  have  it  "  —  She  interrupted 
herself,  and  with  another  and  a  softer  tone,  one 
of  her  professional  transitions,  she  remarked,  "  I 
suppose  you  have  never  known  any  one  that's 
poor." 

"  I  'm  poor  myself.  That  is,  I  'm  very  far  from 
rich.  But  why  receive  favors  —  ? "  And  here  he 
in  turn  checked  himself,  with  the  sense  that  he 


230  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

was  indeed  taking  a  great  deal  on  his  back  if  he 
pretended  already  (he  had  not  seen  the  pair  three 
times)  to  regulate  their  intercourse  with  the  rest 
of  the  world.  But  Miriam  instantly  carried  out 
his  thought  and  more  than  his  thought. 

"  Favors  from  Mr.  Nash  ?  Oh,  he  does  n't 
count ! " 

The  way  she  dropped  these  words  (they  would 
have  been  admirable  on  the  stage)  made  him 
laugh  and  say  immediately  :  "What  I  meant  just 
now  was  that  you  are  not  to  tell  him,  after  all  my 
swagger,  that  I  consider  that  you  and  I  are  really 
required  to  save  our  theatre." 

"  Oh,  if  we  can  save  it,  he  shall  know  it !  " 
Then  Miriam  added  that  she  must  positively  get 
home  ;  her  mother  would  be  in  a  state :  she  had 
really  scarcely  ever  been  out  alone.  He  might  n't 
think  it,  but  so  it  was.  Her  mother's  ideas,  those 
awfully  proper  ones,  were  not  all  talk.  She  did 
keep  her  !  Sherringham  accepted  this  —  he  had 
an  adequate,  and  indeed  an  analytic  vision  of  Mrs. 
Rooth's  conservatism  ;  but  he  observed  at  the 
same  time  that  his  companion  made  no  motion  to 
rise.  He  made  none,  either ;  he  only  said  — 

"We  are  very  frivolous,  the  way  we  chatter. 
What  you  want  to  do,  to  get  your  foot  in  the 
stirrup,  is  supremely  difficult.  There  is  every- 
thing to  overcome.  You  have  neither  an  engage- 
ment nor  the  prospect  of  an  engagement." 

"  Oh,  you  '11  get  me  one  !  "  Miriam's  manner 
expressed  that  this  was  so  certain  that  it  was  not 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE,  2$  I 

worth  dilating  upon  ;  so,  instead  of  dilating,  she 
inquired  abruptly,  a  second  time,  "  Why  do  you 
think  I  'm  so  simple  ?  " 

"  I  don't,  then.  Did  n't  I  tell  you  just  now  that 
you  were  extraordinary  ?  That 's  the  term,  more- 
over, that  you  applied  to  yourself,  when  you  came 
to  see  me  —  when  you  said  a  girl  had  to  be,  to 
wish  to  go  on  the  stage.  It  remains  the  right  one, 
and  your  simplicity  does  n't  mitigate  it.  What 's 
rare  in  you  is  that  you  have  —  as  I  suspect,  at 
least  —  no  nature  of  your  own."  Miriam  listened 
to  this  as  if  she  were  preparing  to  argue  with  it 
or  not,  only  as  it  should  strike  her  as  being  a 
pleasing  picture ;  but  as  yet,  naturally,  she  failed 
to  understand.  "  You  are  always  playing  some- 
thing ;  there  are  no  intervals.  It's  the  absence 
of  intervals,  of  a  fond  or  background,  that  I  don't 
comprehend.  You  're  an  embroidery  without  a 
canvas." 

"  Yes,  perhaps,"  the  girl  replied,  with  her  head 
on  one  side,  as  if  she  were  looking  at  the  pattern. 
"  But  I  'm  very  honest." 

"You  can't  be  everything,  a  consummate  ac- 
tress and  a  flower  of  the  field.  You  've  got  to 
choose." 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment.  "  I  'm  glad  you 
think  I  'm  so  wonderful." 

"Your  feigning  may  be  honest,  in  the  sense 
that  your  only  feeling  is  your  feigned  one,"  Sher- 
ringham  went  on.  "  That 's  what  I  mean  by  the 
absence  of  a  ground  or  of  intervals.  It 's  a  kind 
of  thing  that 's  a  labyrinth !  " 


232  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  I  know  what  I  am,"  said  Miriam,  senten- 
tiously. 

But  her  companion  continued,  following  his 
own  train  :  "  Were  you  really  so  frightened,  the 
first  day  you  went  to  Madame  Carry's  ?  " 

She  stared  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  flush, 
throwing  back  her  head,  "Do  you  think  I  was 
pretending  ? " 

"  I  think  you  always  are.  However,  your  van- 
ity (if  you  had  any  !)  would  be  natural." 

"  I  have  plenty  of  that  —  I  'm  not  ashamed  to 
own  it." 

"  You  would  be  capable  of  pretending  that  you 
have.  But  excuse  the  audacity  and  the  crudity 
of  my  speculations  —  it  only  proves  my  interest. 
What  is  it  that  you  know  you  are  ?  " 

"  Why,  an  artist.     Is  n't  that  a  canvas  ?  " 

"  Yes,  an  intellectual  one,  but  not  a  moral." 

"  Oh  yes,  it  is,  too.  And  I  'm  a  good  girl : 
won't  that  do  ?  " 

"  It  remains  to  be  seen,"  Sherringham  laughed. 
"  A  creature  who  is  all  an  artist  —  I  am  curious 
to  see  that." 

"  Surely  it  has  been  seen,  in  lots  of  painters, 
lots  of  musicians." 

"Yes,  but  those  arts  are  not  personal,  like 
yours.  I  mean  not  so  much  so.  There 's  some- 
thing left  for  —  what  shall  I  call  it  ?  —  for  char- 
acter." 

Miriam  stared  again,  with  her  tragic  light. 
"  And  do  you  think  I  've  got  no  character  ? "  As 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  233 

he  hesitated  she  pushed  back  her  chair,  rising 
rapidly. 

He  looked  up  at  her  an  instant  —  she  seemed 
so  "plastic  ;  "  and  then,  rising  too,  he  answered  : 
"  Delightful  being,  you  Ve  got  a  hundred  !  " 


XII. 

THE  summer  arrived  and  the  dense  air  of  the 
Paris  theatres  became  in  fact  a  still  more  compli- 
cated mixture ;  yet  the  occasions  were  not  few  on 
which  Peter  Sherringham,  having  placed  a  box, 
near  the  stage  (most  often  a  stuffy,  dusky  baig- 
noire), at  the  disposal  of  Mrs.  Rooth  and  her 
daughter,  found  time  to  look  in,  as  he  said,  to 
spend  a  part  of  the  evening  with  them  and  point 
the  moral  of  the  performance.  The  pieces,  the 
successes  of  the  winter,  had  entered  the  automatic 
phase :  they  went  on  by  the  force  of  the  impetus 
acquired,  deriving  little  fresh  life  from  the  inter- 
pretation, and  in  ordinary  conditions  their  strong 
points,  as  rendered  by  the  actors,  would  have 
been  as  wearisome  to  Sherringham  as  an  impor- 
tunate repetition  of  a  good  story.  But  it  was 
not  long  before  he  became  aware  that  the  condi- 
tions could  not  be  regarded  as  ordinary.  There 
was  a  new  infusion  in  his  consciousness  —  an  ele- 
ment in  his  life  which  altered  the  relations  of 
things.  He  was  not  easy  till  he  had  found  the 
right  name  for  it —  a  name  the  more  satisfactory 
that  it  was  simple,  comprehensive,  and  plausible. 
A  new  "  distraction,"  in  the  French  sense,  was 
what  he  flattered  himself  he  had  discovered  ;  he 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  2$$ 

could  recognize  that  as  freely  as  possible  without 
being  obliged  to  classify  the  agreeable  resource 
as  a  new  entanglement.  He  was  neither  too 
much  nor  too  little  diverted  ;  he  had  all  his  usual 
attention  to  give  to  his  work  :  he  had  only  an  em- 
ployment for  his  odd  hours,  which,  without  being 
imperative,  had,  over  various  others,  the  advan- 
tage of  a  certain  continuity. 

And  yet,  I  hasten  to  add,  he  was  not  so  well 
pleased  with  it  but  that,  among  his  friends,  he 
maintained  for  the  present  a  considerable  reserve 
in  regard  to  it.  He  had  no  irresistible  impulse  to 
tell  people  that  he  had  disinterred  a  strange, 
handsome  girl  whom  he  was  bringing  up  for  the 
theatre.  She  had  been  seen  by  several  of  his 
associates,  at  his  rooms ;  but  she  was  not  soon  to 
be  seen  there  again.  Sherringham's  reserve 
might  by  the  ill-natured  have  been  termed  dissim- 
ulation, inasmuch  as  when  asked  by  the  ladies  of 
the  Embassy  what  had  become  of  the  young  per- 
son who  amused  them,  that  day,  so  cleverly,  he 
gave  it  out  that  her  whereabouts  was  uncertain 
and  her  destiny  probably  obscure  ;  he  let  it  be 
supposed,  in  a  word,  that  his  benevolence  had 
scarcely  survived  an  accidental,  charitable  occa- 
sion. As  he  went  about  his  customary  business, 
and  perhaps  even  put  a  little  more  conscience 
into  the  transaction  of  it,  there  was  nothing  to 
suggest  to  his  companions  that  he  was  engaged 
in  a  private  speculation  of  a  singular  kind.  It 
was  perhaps  his  weakness  that  he  carried  the  ap- 


236  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

prehension  of  ridicule  too  far ;  but  his  excuse  may 
be  said  to  be  that  he  held  it  unpardonable  for  a 
man  publicly  enrolled  in  the  service  of  his  coun- 
try to  be  ridiculous.  It  was  of  course  not  out  of 
all  order  that  such  functionaries,  their  private 
situation  permitting,  should  enjoy  a  personal  ac- 
quaintance with  stars  of  the  dramatic,  the  lyric, 
or  even  the  choregraphic  stage  :  high  diplomatists 
had  indeed  not  rarely,  and  not  invisibly,  culti- 
vated this  privilege  without  its  proving  the  sepul- 
chre of  their  reputation.  That  a  gentleman  who 
was  not  a  fool  should  consent  a  little  to  become 
one  for  the  sake  of  a  celebrated  actress  or  singer 
—  cela  s'Jtait  vu,  though  it  was  not  perhaps  to  be 
recommended.  It  was  not  a  tendency  that  was 
encouraged  at  headquarters,  where  even  the  most 
rising  young  men  were  not  encouraged  to  believe 
they  could  never  fall.  Still,  it  might  pass,  if  it 
were  kept  in  its  place ;  and  there  were  ancient 
worthies  yet  in  the  profession  (not  those,  how- 
ever, whom  the  tradition  had  helped  to  go  fur- 
thest) who  held  that  something  of  the  sort  was 
a  graceful  ornament  of  the  diplomatic  character. 
Sherringham  was  aware  he  was  very  "  rising  "  ; 
but  Miriam  Rooth  was  not  yet  a  celebrated  ac- 
tress. She  was  only  a  youthful  artist,  in  con- 
scientious process  of  formation,  encumbered  with 
a  mother  still  more  conscientious  than  herself. 
She  was  a  young  English  lady,  very  earnest 
about  artistic,  about  remunerative  problems.  He 
had  accepted  the  position  of  a  formative  influ- 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  2$? 

ence ;  and  that  was  precisely  what  might  provoke 
derision.  He  was  a  ministering  angel  —  his  pa- 
tience and  good-nature  really  entitled  him  to  the 
epithet,  and  his  rewards  would  doubtless  some 
day  define  themselves  ;  but  meanwhile  other  pro- 
motions were  in  contingent  prospect,  for  the 
failure  of  which  these  would  not,  even  in  their 
abundance,  be  a  compensation.  He  kept  an  un- 
embarrassed eye  upon  Downing  Street ;  and  while 
it  may  frankly  be  said  for  him  that  he  was  neither 
a  pedant  nor  a  prig,  he  remembered  that  the  last 
impression  he  ought  to  wish  to  produce  there 
was  that  of  volatility. 

He  felt  not  particularly  volatile,  however,  when 
he  sat  behind  Miriam  at  the  play  and  looked  over 
her  shoulder  at  the  stage  ;  her  observation  being 
so  keen  and  her  comments  so  unexpected  in  their 
vivacity  that  his  curiosity  was  refreshed  and  his 
attention  stretched  beyond  its  wont  If  the  spec- 
tacle before  the  footlights  had  now  lost  much  of 
its  annual  brilliancy,  the  fashion  in  which  Miriam 
followed  it  came  near  being  spectacle  enough. 
Moreover,  in  most  cases  the  attendance  of  the 
little  party  was  at  the  Theatre  Fran^ais  ;  and  it 
has  been  sufficiently  indicated  that  Sherringham, 
though  the  child  of  a  skeptical  age  and  the  votary 
of  a  cynical  science,  was  still  candid  enough  to 
take  the  serious,  the  religious  view  of  that  estab- 
lishment —  the  view  of  M.  Sarcey  and  of  the  un- 
regenerate  provincial  mind.  "  In  the  trade  that 
I  follow  we  see  things  too  much  in  the  hard  light 


238  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

of  reason,  of  calculation,"  he  once  remarked  to 
his  young  prottgte ;  "but  it's  good  for  the  mind 
to  keep  up  a  superstition  or  two  ;  it  leaves  a  mar- 
gin, like  having  a  second  horse  to  your  brougham, 
for  night-work.  The  arts,  the  amusements,  the 
aesthetic  part  of  life,  are  night-work,  if  I  may  say 
so  without  suggesting  the  nefarious.  At  any 
rate,  you  want  your  second  horse  —  your  supersti- 
tion that  stays  at  home  when  the  sun  is  high  —  to 
go  your  rounds  with.  The  Theatre  Franc_ais  is 
my  second  horse." 

Miriam's  appetite  for  this  pleasure  showed  him 
vividly  enough  how  rarely,  in  the  past,  it  had 
been  within  her  reach  ;  and  she  pleased  him,  at 
first,  by  liking  everything,  seeing  almost  no  dif- 
ferences and  taking  her  deep  draught  undiluted. 
She  leaned  on  the  edge  of  the  box  with  bright 
voracity ;  tasting  to  the  core,  yet  relishing  the 
surface,  watching  each  movement  of  each  actor, 
attending  to  the  way  each  thing  was  said  or  done 
as  if  it  were  the  most  important  thing,  and  emit- 
ting from  time  to  time  applausive  or  restrictive 
sounds.  It  was  a  very  pretty  exhibition  of  en- 
thusiasm, if  enthusiasm  be  ever  critical.  Sher- 
ringham  had  his  wonder  about  it,  as  it  was  a  part 
of  the  attraction  exerted  by  this  young  lady  that 
she  caused  him  to  have  his  wonder  about  every- 
thing she  did.  Was  it  in  fact  an  exhibition,  a 
line  taken  for  effect,  so  that,  at  the  comedy,  her 
own  comedy  was  the  most  successful  of  all  ?  That 
question  danced  attendance  on  the  liberal  inter- 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  239 

course  of  these  young  people,  and  fortunately,  as 
yet,  did  little  to  embitter  Sherringham's  share  of 
it.  His  general  sense  that  she  was  personating 
had  its  especial  moments  of  suspense  and  per- 
plexity, and  added  variety  and  even  occasionally 
a  degree  of  excitement  to  their  conversation.  At 
the  theatre,  for  the  most  part,  she  was  really 
flushed  with  eagerness ;  and  with  the  spectators 
who  turned  an  admiring  eye  into  the  dim  com- 
partment of  which  she  pervaded  the  front,  she 
might  have  passed  for  a  romantic,  or  at  any  rate 
an  insatiable  young  woman  from  the  country. 

Mrs.  Rooth  took  a  more  placid  view,  but  at- 
tended immensely  to  the  story,  in  respect  to 
which  she  manifested  a  patient  good  faith  which 
had  its  surprises  and  its  comicalities  for  Sher- 
ringham.  She  found  no  play  too  tedious,  no  en- 
tracte  too  long,  no  baignoire  too  hot,  no  tissue 
of  incidents  too  complicated,  no  situation  too  un- 
natural and  no  sentiments  too  sublime.  She  gave 
Sherringham  the  measure  of  her  power  to  sit  and 
sit  —  an  accomplishment  to  which  she  owed,  in 
the  struggle  for  existence,  such  superiority  as 
she  might  be  said  to  have  achieved.  She  could 
outsit  every  one,  everything  else ;  looking  as  if 
she  had  acquired  the  practice  in  repeated  years 
of  small  frugality  combined  with  large  leisure  — 
periods  when  she  had  nothing  but  time  to  spend 
and  had  learned  to  calculate,  in  any  situation, 
how  long  she  could  stay.  "  Staying "  was  so 
often  a  saving  —  a  saving  of  candles,  of  fire,  and 


24O  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

even  (for  it  sometimes  implied  a  vision  of  light 
refreshment)  of  food.  Sherringham  perceived 
soon  enough  that  she  was  complete,  in  her  way, 
and  if  he  had  been  addicted  to  studying  the 
human  mixture  in  its  different  combinations  he 
would  have  found  in  her  an  interesting  compen- 
dium of  some  of  the  infatuations  that  survive  a 
hard  discipline.  He  made,  indeed,  without  diffi- 
culty, the  reflection  that  her  life  might  have 
taught  her  the  reality  of  things,  at  the  same  time 
that  he  could  scarcely  help  thinking  it  clever  of 
her  to  have  so  persistently  declined  the  lesson. 
She  appeared  to  have  put  it  by  with  a  deprecat- 
ing, ladylike  smile  —  a  plea  of  being  too  soft  and 
bland  for  experience. 

She  took  the  refined,  sentimental,  tender  view 
of  the  universe,  beginning  with  her  own  history 
and  feelings.  She  believed  in  everything  high 
and  pure,  disinterested  and  orthodox,  and  even  at 
the  H6tel  de  la  Garonne  was  unconscious  of  the 
shabby  or  the  ugly  side  of  the  world.  She  never 
despaired  :  otherwise  what  would  have  been  the 
use  of  being  a  Neville-Nugent?  Only  not  to 
have  been  one  —  that  would  have  been  discour- 
aging. She  delighted  in  novels,  poems,  perver- 
sions, misrepresentations,  and  evasions,  and  had 
a  capacity  for  smooth,  superfluous  falsification 
which  made  Sherringham  think  her  sometimes 
an  amusing  and  Sometimes  a  tedious  inventor. 
But  she  was  not  dangerous,  even  if  you  believed 
her ;  she  was  not  even  a  warning  if  you  did  n't. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  24! 

It  was  harsh  to  call  her  a  hypocrite,  because  you 
never  could  have  resolved  her  back  into  her  char- 
acter :  there  was  no  reverse  to  her  blazonry.  She 
built  in  the  air,  and  was  not  less  amiable  than 
she  pretended :  only  that  was  a  pretension  too. 
She  moved  altogether  in  a  world  of  genteel  fable 
and  fancy,  and  Sherringham  had  to  live  in  it  with 
her,  for  Miriam's  sake,  in  sociable,  vulgar  assent, 
in  spite  of  his  feeling  that  it  was  rather  a  low 
neighborhood.  He  was  at  a  loss  how  to  take 
what  she  said  —  she  talked,  sweetly  and  discur- 
sively, of  so  many  things  —  until  he  simply  per- 
ceived that  he  could  only  take  it,  always,  for 
untrue.  When  Miriam  laughed  at  her  he  was 
rather  disagreeably  affected  :  "  dear  mamma's 
fine  stories  "  was  a  sufficiently  cynical  reference 
to  the  immemorial  infirmity  of  a  parent.  But 
when  the  girl  backed  her  up,  as  he  phrased  it  to 
himself,  he  liked  that  even  less. 

Mrs.  Rooth  was  very  fond  of  a  moral,  and  had 
never  lost  her  taste  for  edification.  She  delighted 
in  a  beautiful  character,  and  was  gratified  to  find 
so  many  represented  in  the  contemporary  French 
drama.  She  never  failed  to  direct  Miriam's  at- 
tention to  them  and  to  remind  her  that  there  is 
nothing  in  life  so  precious  as  the  ideal.  Sherring- 
ham noted  the  difference  between  the  mother  and 
the  daughter  and  thought  it  singularly  marked  — 
the  way  that  one  took  everything  for  the  sense, 
or  behaved  as  if  she  did,  caring  above  all  for  the 
subject  and  the  romance,  the  triumph  or  defeat  of 


242  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

virtue  and  the  moral  comfort  of  it  all,  and  that 
the  other  was  especially  hungry  for  the  manner 
and  the  art  of  it,  the  presentation  and  the  vivid- 
ness. Mrs.  Rooth  abounded  in  impressive  evoca- 
tions, and  yet  he  saw  no  link  between  her  facile 
genius  and  that  of  which  Miriam  gave  symptoms. 
The  poor  lady  never  could  have  been  accused  of 
successful  deceit,  whereas  success  in  this  line 
was  exactly  what  her  clever  child  went  in  for. 
She  made  even  the  true  seem  fictive,  while  Mir- 
iam's effort  was  to  make  the  fictive  true.  Sher- 
ringham  thought  it  an  odd,  unpromising  stock 
(that  of  the  Neville  -  Nugents)  for  a  dramatic 
talent  to  have  sprung  from,  till  he  reflected  that 
the  evolution  was  after  all  natural :  the  figurative 
impulse  in  the  mother  had  become  conscious,  and 
therefore  higher,  through  finding  an  aim,  which 
was  beauty,  in  the  daughter.  Likely  enough  the 
Hebraic  Mr.  Rooth,  with  his  love  of  old  pots  and 
Christian  altar-cloths,  had  supplied,  in  the  girl's 
composition,  the  aesthetic  element,  the  sense  of 
form.  In  their  visits  to  the  theatre  there  was 
nothing  that  Mrs.  Rooth  more  insisted  upon  than 
the  unprofitableness  of  deceit,  as  shown  by  the 
most  distinguished  authors  —  the  folly  and  deg- 
radation, the  corrosive  effect  upon  the  spirit,  of 
tortuous  ways.  Sherringham  very  soon  gave  up 
the  futile  task  of  piecing  together  her  incon- 
gruous references  to  her  early  life  and  her  family 
_n  England.  He  renounced  even  the  doctrine 
Jiat  there  was  a  residuum  of  truth  in  her  claim 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  243 

of  great  relationships,  for,  existent  or  not,  he 
cared  equally  little  for  her  ramifications.  The 
principle  of  this  indifference  was  at  bottom  a 
certain  desire  to  disconnect  Miriam ;  for  it  was 
disagreeable  not  to  be  independent  in  dealing 
with  her,  and  he  could  be  fully  so  only  if  she  . 
were. 

The  early  weeks  of  that  summer  (they  went  on, 
indeed,  into  August)  were  destined  to  establish 
themselves  in  his  memory  as  a  season  of  pleasant 
things.  The  ambassador  went  away,  and  Sher- 
ringham  had  to  wait  for  his  own  holiday,  which 
he  did,  during  the  hot  days,  contentedly  enough, 
in  jpacious  halls,  with  a  dim,  bird-haunted  garden. 
The  official  world  and  most  other  worlds  with- 
drew from  Paris,  and  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
a  larger,  whiter  desert  than  ever,  became  by  a 
reversal  of  custom,  explorable  with  safety.  The 
Champs  Elysees  were  dusty  and  rural,  with  little 
creaking  booths  and  exhibitions  which  made  a 
noise  like  grasshoppers ;  the  Arc  de  Triomphe 
threw  its  cool,  sharp  shadow  for  a  mile ;  the 
Palais  de  1' Industrie  glittered  in  the  light  of  the 
long  days  ;  the  cabmen,  in  their  red  waistcoats, 
dozed  in  their  boxes ;  and  Sherringham  permit- 
ted himself  a  "  pot "  hat  and  rarely  met  a  friend. 
Thus  was  Miriam  still  more  disconnected,  and 
thus  was  it  possible  to  deal  with  her  still  more 
independently.  The  theatres  on  the  boulevard 
closed,  for  the  most  part,  but  the  great  temple  of 
the  Rue  de  Richelieu,  with  an  aesthetic  responsi- 


244  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

bility,  continued  imperturbably  to  dispense  ex- 
amples of  style.  Madame  Carre"  was  going  to 
Vichy,  but  she  had  not  yet  taken  flight,  which 
was  a  great  advantage  for  Miriam,  who  could  now 
solicit  her  attention  with  the  consciousness  that 
she  had  no  engagements  en  ville. 

"  I  make  her  listen  to  me  —  I  make  her  tell 
me,"  said  the  ardent  girl,  who  was  always  climb- 
ing the  slope  of  the  Rue  de  Constantinople,  on 
the  shady  side,  where  in  the  July  mornings  there 
was  a  smell  of  violets  from  the  moist  flower-stands 
of  fat,  white-capped  bouquetitres,  in  the  angles  of 
doorways.  Miriam  liked  the  Paris  of  the  sum- 
mer mornings,  the  clever  freshness  of  all  the 
little  trades  and  the  open-air  life,  the  cries,  the 
talk  from  door  to  door,  which  reminded  her  of 
the  south,  where,  in  the  multiplicity  of  her  habi- 
tations, she  had  lived  ;  and  most  of  all,  the  great 
amusement,  or  nearly,  of  her  walk,  the  enviable 
baskets  of  the  laundress,  piled  up  with  frilled  and 
fluted  whiteness  —  the  certain  luxury,  she  felt  as 
she  passed,  with  quick  prevision,  of  her  own 
dawn  of  glory.  The  greatest  amusement  perhaps 
was  to  recognize  the  pretty  sentiment  of  earli- 
ness,  the  particular  congruity  with  the  hour,  in 
the  studied,  selected  dress  of  the  little  tripping 
women  who  were  taking  the  day,  for  important 
advantages,  while  it  was  tender.  At  any  rate 
she  always  brought  with  her,  from  her  passage 
through  the  town,  good  humor  enough  (with  the 
penny  bunch  of  violets  that  she  stuck  in  the  front 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  245 

of  her  dress)  for  whatever  awaited  her  at  Madame 
Carry's.  She  told  Sherringham  that  her  dear 
mistress  was  terribly  severe,  giving  her  the  most 
difficult,  the  most  exhausting  exercises  —  show- 
ing a  kind  of  rage  for  breaking  her  in. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  Sherringham  answered  ; 
but  he  asked  no  questions,  and  was  glad  to  let 
the  preceptress  and  the  pupil  fight  it  out  together. 
He  wanted,  for  the  moment,  to  know  as  little  as 
possible  about  them  :  he  had  been  overdosed  with 
knowledge,  that  second  day  he  saw  them  together. 
He  would  send  Madame  Carre  her  money  (she  was 
really  most  obliging),  and  in  the  meantime  he  was 
conscious  that  Miriam  could  take  care  of  herself. 
Sometimes  he  remarked  to  her  that  she  needn't 
always  talk  "  shop "  to  him  :  there  were  times 
when  he  was  very  tired  of  shop  —  of  hers.  More- 
over, he  frankly  admitted  that  he  was  tired  of  his 
own,  so  that  the  restriction  was  not  brutal.  When 
she  replied,  staring,  "Why,  I  thought  you  con- 
sidered it  as  such  a  beautiful,  interesting  art ! " 
he  had  no  rejoinder  more  philosophic  than  "  Well, 
I  do ;  but  there  are  moments  when  I  'm  sick  of  it, 
all  the  same."  At  other  times  he  said  to  her : 
"  Oh,  yes,  the  results,  the  finished  thing,  the  dish 
perfectly  seasoned  and  served :  not  the  mess  of 
preparation  —  at  least  not  always  —  not  the  ex- 
periments that  spoil  the  material." 

"I  thought  you  thought  just  these  questions 
of  study,  of  the  artistic  education,  as  you  have 
have  called  it  to  me,  so  fascinating,"  the  girl  per- 
sisted. Sometimes  she  was  very  lucid. 


246  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Well,  after  all  I  'm   not  an   actor  myself," 

Sherringham  answered  laughing. 

"  You  might  be  one  if  you  were  serious,"  said 
Miriam.  To  this  her  friend  replied  that  Mr.  Ga- 
briel Nash  ought  to  hear  that ;  which  made  her 
exclaim,  with  a  certain  grimness,  that  she  would 
settle  him  and  his  theories  some  day.  Not  to 
seem  too  inconsistent — for  it  was  cruel  to  be- 
wilder her  when  he  had  taken  her  up  to  enlighten 
—  Sherringham  repeated  over  that  for  a  man  like 
himself  the  interest  of  the  whole  thing  depended 
on  its  being  considered  in  a  large,  liberal  way, 
with  an  intelligence  that  lifted  it  out  of  the  ques- 
tion of  the  little  tricks  of  the  trade,  gave  it  beauty 
and  elevation.  Miriam  let  him  know  that  Madame 
Carre  held  that  there  were  no  little  tricks  ;  that 
everything  had  its  importance  as  a  means  to  a 
great  end  ;  and  that  if  you  were  not  willing  to  try 
to  approfondir  the  reason  why,  in  a  given  situation, 
you  should  scratch  your  nose  with  your  left  hand 
rather  than  with  your  right,  you  were  not  worthy 
to  tread  any  stage  that  respected  itself. 

"  That 's  very  well.;  but  if  I  must  go  into  de- 
tails read  me  a  little  Shelley,"  said  the  young  man, 
in  the  spirit  of  a  high  raffint. 

"  You  are  worse  than  Madame  Carre" ;  you 
don't  know  what  to  invent ;  between  you  you  '11 
kill  me  !  "  the  girl  declared.  "  I  think  there 's  a 
secret  league  between  you  to  spoil  my  voice,  or 
at  least  to  weaken  my  wind,  before  I  get  it.  But 
d  la  guerre  comme  d  la  gtiei're  !  How  can  I  read 
Shelley,  however,  when  I  don't  understand  him  ?  " 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  247 

"That's  just  what  I  want  to  make  you  do. 
It 's  a  part  of  your  general  training.  You  may 
do  without  that,  of  course  —  without  culture  and 
taste  and  perception  ;  but  in  that  case  you  '11  be 
nothing  but  a  vulgar  cabotine,  and  nothing  will 
be  of  any  consequence."  Sherringham  had  a 
theory  that  the  great  lyric  poets  (he  induced  her 
to  read,  and  recite  as  well,  long  passages  of 
Wordsworth  and  of  Swinburne)  would  teach  her 
many  of  the  secrets  of  competent  utterance,  the 
mysteries  of  rhythm,  the  communicableness  of 
style,  the  latent  music  of  the  language  and  the 
art  of  "composing"  copious  speeches  and  of 
keeping  her  wind  in  hand.  He  held,  in  perfect 
sincerity,  that  there  was  an  indirect  enlighten- 
ment which  would  be  of  the  highest  importance 
to  her,  and  to  which  it  was  precisely,  by  good 
fortune,  in  his  power  to  contribute.  She  would 
do  better  in  proportion  as  she  had  more  knowl- 
edge —  even  knowledge  that  might  appear  to 
have  but  a  remote  connection  with  her  business. 
The  actor's  talent  was  essentially  a  gift,  a  thing 
by  itself,  implanted,  instinctive,  accidental,  equally 
unconnected  with  intellect  and  with  virtue  — 
Sherringham  was  completely  of  that  opinion  ;  but 
it  seemed  to  him  no  contradiction  to  consider  at 
the  same  time  that  intellect  (leaving  virtue,  for 
the  moment,  out  of  the  question)  might  be  brought 
into  fruitful  relation  with  it.  It  would  be  a  larger 
thing  if  a  better  mind  were  projected  upon  it  — 
without  sacrificing  the  mind.  So  he  lent  Miriam 


248  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

books  which  she  never  read  (she  was  on  almost 
irreconcilable  terms  with  the  printed  page),  and 
in  the  long  summer  days,  when  he  had  leisure, 
took  her  to  the  Louvre  to  admire  the  great 
works  of  painting  and  sculpture.  Here,  as  on 
all  occasions,  he  was  struck  with  the  queer  jumble 
of  her  taste,  her  mixture  of  intelligence  and  puer- 
ility. He  saw  that  she  never  read  what  he  gave 
her,  though  she  sometimes  would  have  liked  him 
to  suppose  so  ;  but  in  the  presence  of  famous 
pictures  and  statues  she  had  remarkable  flashes 
of  perception.  She  felt  these  things,  she  liked 
them,  though  it  was  always  because  she  had  an 
idea  she  could  use  them.  The  idea  was  often 
fantastic,  but  it  showed  what  an  eye  she  had  to 
her  business.  "  I  could  look  just  like  that,  if  I 
tried."  "  That 's  the  dress  I  mean  to  wear  when 
I  do  Portia."  Such  were  the  observations  that 
were  apt  to  drop  from  her  under  the  suggestion 
of  antique  marbles  or  when  she  stood  before  a 
Titian  or  a  Bronzino. 

When  she  uttered  them,  and  many  others  be- 
sides, the  effect  was  sometimes  irritating  to  Sher- 
ringham,  who  had  to  reflect  a  little  to  remember 
that  she  was  no  more  egotistical  than  the  histri- 
onic conscience  demanded.  He  wondered  if  there 
were  necessarily  something  vulgar  in  the  histri- 
onic conscience  —  something  condemned  only  to 
feel  the  tricky  personal  question.  Was  n't  it 
better  to  be  perfectly  stupid  than  to  have  only 
one  eye  open  and  wear  forever,  in  the  great  face 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  249 

of  the  world,  the  expression  of  a  knowing  wink  ? 
At  the  theatre,  on  the  numerous  July  evenings 
when  the  Comedie  Franchise  played  the  repertory, 
with  exponents  determined  the  more  sparse  and 
provincial  audience  should  have  a  revelation  of 
the  tradition,  her  appreciation  was  tremendously 
technical  and  showed  it  was  not  for  nothing  she 
was  now  in  and  out  of  Madame  Carre's  innermost 
counsels.  But  there  were  moments  when  even 
her  very  acuteness  seemed  to  him  to  drag  the 
matter  down,  to  see  it  in  a  small  and  superficial 
sense.  What  he  flattered  himself  that  he  was 
trying  to  do  for  her  (and  through  her  for  the  stage 
of  his  time,  since  she  was  the  instrument,  and  in- 
contestably  a  fine  one,  that  had  come  to  his  hand) 
was  precisely  to  lift  it  up,  make  it  rare,  keep  it  in 
the  region  of  distinction  and  breadth.  However, 
she  was  doubtless  right  and  he  was  wrong,  he 
eventually  reasoned  :  you  could  afford  to  be  vague 
only  if  you  had  n't  a  responsibility.  He  had  fine 
ideas,  but  she  was  to  do  the  acting,  that  is  the 
application  of  them,  and  not  he  ;  and  application 
was  always  of  necessity  a  sort  of  vulgarization, 
a  smaller  thing  than  theory.  If  some  day  she 
should  exhibit  the  great  art  that  it  was  not  purely 
fanciful  to  forecast  for  her,  the  subject  would 
doubtless  be  sufficiently  lifted  up,  and  it  would  n't 
matter  that  some  of  the  onward  steps  should  have 
been  lame. 

This   was  clear  to  him  on   several   occasions 
when  she  repeated  or  acted  something  for  him 


250  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

better  than  usual;  then  she  quite  carried  him 
away,  making  him  wish  to  ask  no  more  questions, 
but  only  let  her  disembroil  herself  in  her  own 
own  fashion.  In  these  hours  she  gave  him,  fit- 
fully but  forcibly,  that  impression  of  beauty 
which  was  to  be  her  justification.  It  was  too 
soon  for  any  general  estimate  of  her  progress  ; 
Madame  Carre"  had  at  last  given  her  an  intelligent 
understanding,  as  well  as  a  sore  personal  sense, 
of  how  bad  she  was.  She  had  therefore  begun 
on  a  new  basis  ;  she  had  returned  to  the  alphabet 
and  the  drill.  It  was  a  phase  of  awkwardness, 
like  the.  splashing  of  a  young  swimmer,  but  buoy- 
ancy would  certainly  come  out  of  it.  For  the 
present  there  was,  for  the  most  part,  no  great 
alteration  of  the  fact  that  when  she  did  things 
according  to  her  own  idea  they  were  not  as  yet, 
and  seriously  judged,  worth  the  devil,  as  Madame 
Carre  said  ;  and  when  she  did  them  according  to 
that  of  her  instructress  they  were  too  apt  to  be  a 
gross  parody  of  that  lady's  intention.  None  the 
less  she  gave  glimpses,  and  her  glimpses  made 
him  feel  not  only  that  she  was  not  a  fool  (that 
was  a  small  relief)  but  that  he  was  not. 

He  made  her  stick  to  her  English  and  read 
Shakespeare  aloud  to  him.  Mrs.  Rooth  had  rec- 
ognized the  importance  of  an  apartment  in  which 
they  should  be  able  to  receive  so  beneficent  a 
visitor,  and  was  now  mistress  of  a  small  salon 
with  a  balcony  and  a  rickety  flower-stand  (to  say 
nothing  of  a  view  of  many  roofs  and  chimneys),  a 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  2$i 

crooked,  waxed  floor,  an  empire  clock,  an  armoire 
a  glace  (highly  convenient  for  Miriam's  postur- 
ings),  and  several  cupboard  doors,  covered  over, 
allowing  for  treacherous  gaps,  with  the  faded 
magenta  paper  of  the  wall.  The  thing  had  been 
easily  done,  for  Sherringham  had  said,  "  Oh,  we 
must  have  a  sitting-room,  for  our  studies,  you 
know.  I'll  settle  it  with  the  landlady."  Mrs. 
Rooth  had  liked  his  "we"  (indeed,  she  liked 
everything  about  him),  and  he  saw  in  this  way 
that  she  had  no  insuperable  objection  to  being 
under  a  pecuniary  obligation  so  long  as  it  was  dis- 
tinctly understood  to  be  temporary.  That  he 
should  have  his  money  back  with  interest  as  soon 
as  Miriam  was  launched  was  a  comfort  so  deeply 
implied  that  it  only  added  to  intimacy.  The  win- 
dow stood  open  on  the  little  balcony,  and  when 
the  sun  had  left  it  Sherringham  and  Miriam  could 
linger  there,  leaning  on  the  rail  and  talking, 
above  the  great  hum  of  Paris,  with  nothing  but 
the  neighboring  tiles  and  tall  tubes  to  take  ac- 
count of.  Mrs.  Rooth,  in  limp  garments,  much 
ungirdled,  was  on  the  sofa  with  a  novel,  making 
good  her  frequent  assertion  that  she  could  put 
up  with  any  life  that  would  yield  her  these  two 
articles.  There  were  romantic  works  that  Sher- 
ringham had  never  read,  and  as  to  which  he  had 
vaguely  wondered  to  what  class  they  were  ad- 
dressed—  the  earlier  productions  of  M.  Eugene 
Sue,  the  once-fashionable  compositions  of  Ma- 
dame Sophie  Gay  —  with  which  Mrs.  Rooth  was 


2 ?2  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

familiar  and  which  she  was  ready  to  peruse  once 
more  if  she  could  get  nothing  fresher.  She  had 
always  a  greasy  volume  tucked  under  her  while 
her  nose  was  bent  upon  the  pages  in  hand.  She 
scarcely  looked  up  even  when  Miriam  lifted  her 
voice  to  show  Sherringham  what  she  could  do. 
These  tragic  or  pathetic  notes  all  went  out  of  the 
window  and  mingled  with  the  undecipherable  con- 
cert of  Paris,  so  that  no  neighbor  was  disturbed 
by  them.  The  girl  shrieked  and  wailed  when  the 
occasion  required  it,  and  Mrs.  Rooth  only  turned 
her  page,  showing  in  this  way  a  great  aesthetic  as 
well  as  a  great  personal  trust. 

She  rather  annoyed  Sherringham  by  the  seren- 
ity of  her  confidence  (for  a  reason  that  he  fully 
understood  only  later),  save  when  Miriam  caught 
an  effect  or  a  tone  so  well  that  she  made  him,  in 
the  pleasure  of  it,  forget  her  parent  was  there. 
He  continued  to  object  to  the  girl's  English,  with 
the  foreign  patches  which  might  pass  in  prose 
but  were  offensive  in  the  recitation  of  verse,  and 
he  wanted  to  know  why  she  could  not  speak  like 
her  mother.  He  had  to  do  Mrs.  Rooth  the  jus- 
tice of  recognizing  the  charm  of  her  voice  and 
accent,  which  gave  a  certain  richness  even  to  the 
foolish  things  she  said.  They  were  of  an  excel- 
lent insular  tradition,  full  both  of  natural  and  of 
cultivated  sweetness,  and  they  puzzled  him  when 
other  indications  seemed  to  betray  her  —  to  rele- 
gate her  to  the  class  of  the  simply  dreary.  They 
were  like  the  reverberation  of  far-off  drawing- 
rooms. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  2$ 3 

The  connection  between  the  development  of 
Miriam's  genius  and  the  necessity  of  an  occa- 
sional excursion  to  the  country  —  the  charming 
country  that  lies  in  so  many  directions,  beyond 
the  Parisian  banlieue  —  would  not  have  been  im- 
mediately apparent  to  a  merely  superficial  ob- 
server ;  but  a  day,  and  then  another,  at  Versailles, 
a  day  at  Fontainebleau  and  a  trip,  particularly 
harmonious  and  happy,  to  Rambouillet,  took 
their  place  in  Sherringham's  programme  as  apart 
of  the  legitimate  indirect  culture,  an  agency  in 
the  formation  of  taste.  Intimations  of  the  grand 
style,  for  instance,  would  proceed  in  abundance 
from  the  symmetrical  palace  and  gardens  of 
Louis  XIV.  Sherringham  was  very  fond  of  Ver- 
sailles, and  went  there  more  than  once  with  the 
ladies  of  the  Hotel  de  la  Garonne.  They  chose 
quiet  hours,  when  the  fountains  were  dry;  and 
Mrs.  Rooth  took  an  armful  of  novels  and  sat  on 
a  bench  in  the  park,  flanked  by  clipped  hedges 
and  old  statues,  while  her  young  companions 
strolled  away,  walked  to  the  Trianon,  explored 
the  long,  straight  vistas  of  the  woods.  Ram- 
bouillet was  vague  and  pleasant  and  idle;  they 
had  an  idea  that  they  found  suggestive  associa- 
tions there  ;  and  indeed  there  was  an  old  white 
chateau  which  contained  nothing  else.  They 
found,  at  any  rate,  luncheon,  and  in  the  land- 
scape, a  charming  sense  of  summer  and  of  little 
brushed  French  pictures. 

I   have  said  that  in  these  days  Sherringham 


254  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

wondered  a  good  deal,  and  by  the  time  his  leave 
of  absence  was  granted  him  this  practice  had  en- 
gendered a  particular  speculation.  He  was  sur- 
prised that  he  was  not  in  love  with  Miriam  Rooth, 
and  he  considered,  in  moments  of  leisure,  the 
causes  of  his  exemption.  He  had  perceived  from 
the  first  that  she  was  a  "  nature,"  and  each  time 
she  met  his  eyes  the  more  vividly  it  appeared  to 
him  that  her  beauty  was  rare.  You  had  to  get 
the  view  of  her  face,  but  when  you  did  so  it  was 
a  splendid  mobile  mask.  And  the  possessor  of 
this  high  advantage  had  frankness  and  courage 
and  variety  and  the  unusual  and  the  unexpected. 
She  had  qualities  that  seldom  went  together  — 
impulses  and  shynesses,  audacities  and  lapses, 
something  coarse,  popular,  and  strong,  all  inter- 
mingled with  disdains  and  languors  and  nerves. 
And  then,  above  all,  she  was  there,  she  was  ac- 
cessible, she  almost  belonged  to  him.  He  re- 
flected ingeniously  that  he  owed  his  escape  to  a 
peculiar  cause  —  the  fact  that  they  had  together 
a  positive  outside  object.  Objective,  as  it  were, 
was  all  their  communion ;  not  personal  and  self- 
ish, but  a  matter  of  art  and  business  and  dis' 
cussion.  Discussion  had  saved  him,  and  would 
save  him  further  ;  for  they  would  always  have 
something  to  quarrel  about.  Sherringham,  who 
was  not  a  diplomatist  for  nothing  ;  who  had  his 
reasons  for  steering  straight  and  wished  neither 
to  deprive  the  British  public  of  a  rising  star  nor 
to  exchange  his  actual  situation  for  that  of  a 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  2$$ 

conjugal  impresario,  blessed  the  beneficence,  the 
salubrity,  the  pure  exorcism  of  art.  At  the  same 
time,  rather  inconsistently,  and  feeling  that  he 
had  a  completer  vision  than  before  of  the  odd 
animal,  the  artist  who  happened  to  have  been 
born  a  woman,  he  felt  himself  warned  against  a 
serious  connection  (he  made  a  great  point  of  the 
"serious")  with  so  slippery  and  ticklish  a  crea- 
ture. The  two  ladies  had  only  to  stay  in  Paris, 
save  their  candle-ends  and,  as  Madame  Carre 
had  enjoined,  practice  their  scales  :  there  were 
apparently  no  autumn  visits  to  English  country- 
houses  in  prospect  for  Mrs.  Rooth. 

Sherringham  parted  with  them  on  the  under- 
standing that,  in  London,  he  would  look  as 
thoroughly  as  possible  into  the  question  of  an 
engagement  for  Miriam.  The  day  before  he  be- 
gan his  holiday  he  went  to  see  Madame  Carre" 
who  said  to  him,  "  Vous  devriez  bien  nous  la 
laissel." 

"  She  has  got  something,  then  ?  " 

"  She  has  got  most  things.  She  '11  go  far.  It 
is  the  first  time  I  ever  was  mistaken.  But  don't 
tell  her  so  —  I  don't  flatter  her  ;  she  '11  be  too 
puffed  up." 

"  Is  she  very  conceited  ? "  Sherringham  asked. 

"Mauvais  sujet !  "  said  Madame  Carre. 

It  was  on  the  journey  to  London  that  he  in- 
dulged in  some  of  those  questionings  of  his  state 
which  I  have  mentioned  ;  but  I  must  add  that  by 
the  time  he  reached  Charing  Cross  (he  smoked  a 


2$6  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

cigar,  deferred  till  after  the  Channel,  in  a  com- 
partment by  himself)  it  suddenly  came  over  him 
that  they  were  futile.  Now  that  he  had  left  the 
girl,  a  subversive,  unpremeditated  heartbeat  told 
him  —  it  made  him  hold  his  breath  a  minute  in 
the  carriage  —  that  he  had  after  all  not  escaped. 
He  was  in  love  with  her:  he  had  been  in  love 
with  her  from  the  first  hour. 


XIII. 

THE  drive  from  Harsh  to  the  Place,  as  it  was 
called  thereabouts,  could  be  achieved  by  swift 
horses  in  less  than  ten  minutes ;  and  if  Mrs. 
Dallow's  ponies  were  capital  trotters  the  general 
high  pitch  of  the  occasion  made  it  congruous 
that  they  should  show  their  speed.  The  occasion 
was  the  polling-day,  the  hour  after  the  battle. 
The  ponies  had  worked,  with  all  the  rest,  for  the 
week  before,  passing  and  repassing  the  neat  win- 
dows of  the  flat  little  town  (Mrs.  Dallow  had  the 
complacent  belief  that  there  was  none  in  the 
kingdom  in  which  the  flower-stands  looked  more 
respectable  between  the  stiff  muslin  curtains), 
with  their  mistress  behind  them  in  her  low,  smart 
trap.  Very  often  she  was  accompanied  by  the 
Liberal  candidate,  but  even  when  she  was  not 
the  equipage  seemed  scarcely  less  to  represent 
his  pleasant,  sociable  confidence.  It  moved  in  a 
radiance  of  ribbons  and  handbills  and  hand-shakes 
and  smiles  ;  of  quickened  intercourse  and  sudden 
intimacy  ;  of  sympathy  which  assumed  without 
presuming  and  gratitude  which  promised  without 
soliciting.  But  under  Julia's  guidance  the  ponies 
pattered  now,  with  no  indication  of  a  loss  of 
freshness,  along  the  firm,  wide  avenue  which 


258  777.5:    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

wound  and  curved,  to  make  up  in  picturesque 
effect  for  not  undulating,  from  the  gates  opening 
straight  into  the  town  to  the  Palladian  mansion, 
high,  square,  gray  and  clean,  which  stood,  among 
parterres  and  fountains,  in  the  centre  of  the  park. 
A  generous  steed  had  been  sacrificed  to  bring 
the  good  news  from  Ghent  to  Aix,  but  no  such 
extravagance  was  after  all  necessary  for  commu- 
nicating with  Lady  Agnes. 

She  had  remained  at  the  house,  not  going  to 
the  Wheatsheaf,  the  Liberal  inn,  with  the  others  ; 
preferring  to  await  in  privacy,  and  indeed  in  soli- 
tude, the  momentous  result  of  the  poll.  She  had 
come  down  to  Harsh  with  the  two  girls  in  the 
course  of  the  proceedings.  Julia  had  not  thought 
they  would  do  much  good,  but  she  was  expansive 
and  indulgent  now,  and  she  had  liberally  asked 
them.  Lady  Agnes  had  not  a  nice  canvassing 
manner,  effective  as  she  might  have  been  in  the 
character  of  the  high,  benignant,  affable  mother 
—  looking  sweet  participation,  but  not  interfer- 
ing —  of  the  young  and  handsome,  the  shining, 
convincing,  wonderfully  clever  and  certainly  ir- 
resistible aspirant.  Grace  Dormer  had  zeal  with- 
out art,  and  Lady  Agnes,  who,  during  her  hus- 
band's lifetime,  had  seen  their  affairs  follow  the 
satisfactory  principle  of  a  tendency  to  defer  to 
supreme  merit,  had  never  really  learned  the  les- 
son that  voting  goes  by  favor.  However,  she 
could  pray  God  if  she  could  n't  flatter  the  cheese- 
monger, and  Nick  felt  that  she  had  stayed  at 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.        ,  259 

home  to  pray  for  him.  I  must  add  that  Julia 
Dallow  was  too  happy  now,  flicking  her  whip  in 
the  bright  summer  air,  to  say  anything  so  ungra- 
cious even  to  herself  as  that  her  companion  had 
been  returned  in  spite  of  his  nearest  female  rela- 
tives. Besides,  Biddy  had  been  a  rosy  help  :  she 
had  looked  persuasively  pretty,  in  white  and  blue, 
on  platforms  and  in  recurrent  carriages,  out  of 
which  she  had  tossed,  blushing  and  making  peo- 
ple remember  her  eyes,  several  words  that  were 
telling  for  their  very  simplicity. 

Mrs.  Dallow  was  really  too  glad  for  any  defi- 
nite reflection,  even  for  personal  exultation,  the 
vanity  of  recognizing  her  own  large  share  of  the 
work.  Nick  was  in,  and  he  was  beside  her,  tired, 
silent,  vague,  beflowered  and  beribboned,  and  he 
had  been  splendid  from  beginning  to  end,  delight- 
fully good-humored  and  at  the  same  time  delight- 
fully clever  —  still  cleverer  than  she  had  supposed 
he  could  be.  The  sense  that  she  had  helped  his 
cleverness  and  that  she  had  been  repaid  by  it,  or 
by  his  gratitude  (it  came  to  the  same  thing),  in 
a  way  she  appreciated,  was  not  triumphant  and 
jealous  :  it  was  lost,  for  the  present,  in  the  gen- 
eral cheerful  break  of  the  long  tension.  So 
nothing  passed  between  them  on  their  way  to 
the  house ;  there  was  no  sound  in  the  park  but 
the  pleasant  rustle  of  summer  (it  seemed  an  ap- 
plausive murmur)  and  the  swift  progress  of  the 
vehicle. 

Lady  Agnes  already  knew,  for  as  soon  as  the 


260  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

result  was  declared  Nick  had  dispatched  a  man 
on  horseback  to  her,  carrying  the  figures  on  a 
scrawled  card.  He  had  been  far  from  getting 
away  at  once,  having  to  respond  to  the  hubbub 
of  acclamation,  to  speak  yet  again,  to  thank  his 
electors  individually  and  collectively,  to  chaff  the 
Tories,  to  be  carried  hither  and  yon,  and  above 
all  to  pretend  that  the  interest  of  the  business 
was  now  greater  for  him  than  ever.  If  he  said 
never  a  word  after  he  put  himself  in  Julia's  hands 
to  go  home,  perhaps  it  was  partly  because  the 
consciousness  began  to  glimmer  within  him  that 
that  interest  had  on  the  contrary  now  suddenly 
diminished.  He  wanted  to  see  his  mother,  be- 
cause he  knew  she  wanted  to  see  him,  to  fold  him 
close  in  her  arms.  They  had  been  open  there 
for  that  purpose  for  the  last  half  hour,  and  her 
expectancy,  now  no  longer  an  ache  of  suspense, 
was  the  reason  of  Julia's  round  pace.  Yet  this 
very  expectancy  somehow  made  Nick  wince  a 
little.  Meeting  his  mother  was  like  being  elected 
over  again. 

The  others  had  not  come  back  yet,  and  Lady 
Agnes  was  alone  in  the  large  bright  drawing- 
room.  When  Nick  went  in  with  Mrs.  Dallow  he 
saw  her  at  the  further  end  ;  she  had  evidently 
been  walking  to  and  fro,  the  whole  length  of  it, 
and  her  tall,  upright  black  figure  seemed  in  pos- 
session of  the  fair  vastness,  like  an  exclamation- 
point  at  the  bottom  of  a  blank  page.  The  room, 
rich  and  simple,  was  a  place  of  perfection  as  well 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  26 1 

as  of  splendor  in  delicate  tints,  with  precious 
specimens  of  French  furniture  of  the  last  cen- 
tury ranged  against  walls  of  pale  brocade,  and 
here  and  there  a  small,  almost  priceless  picture. 
George  Dallow  had  made  it,  caring  for  these 
things  and  liking  to  talk  about  them  (scarcely 
about  anything  else) ;  so  that  it  appeared  to  rep- 
resent him  still,  what  was  best  in  his  kindly, 
limited  nature  —  a  friendly,  competent,  tiresome 
insistence  upon  purity  and  homogeneity.  Nick 
Dormer  could  hear  him  yet,  and  could  see  him, 
too  fat  and  with  a  congenital  thickness  in  his 
speech,  lounging  there  in  loose  clothes,  with  his 
eternal  cigarette.  "  Now,  my  dear  fellow,  that 's 
what  I  call  form  :  I  don't  know  what  you  call  it " 
—  that  was  the  way  he  used  to  begin.  The  room 
was  full  of  flowers  in  rare  vases,  but  it  looked 
like  a  place  of  which  the  beauty  would  have  had 
a  sweet  odor  even  without  them. 

Lady  Agnes  had  taken  a  white  rose  from  one 
of  the  clusters  and  was  holding  it  to  her  face, 
which  was  turned  to  the  door,  as  Nick  crossed 
the  threshold.  The  expression  of  her  figure  in- 
stantly told  him  (he  saw  the  creased  card  that  he 
had  sent  her  lying  on  one  of  the  beautiful  bare 
tables)  how  she  had  been  sailing  up  and  down  in 
a  majesty  of  satisfaction.  The  inflation  of  her 
long,  plain  dress,  the  brightened  dimness  of  her 
proud  face,  were  still  in  the  air.  In  a  moment 
he  had  kissed  her  and  was  being  kissed,  not  in 
quick  repetition,  but  in  tender  prolongation,  with 


262  THE    7  R  AGIO  MUSE. 

which  the  perfume  of  the  white  rose  was  mixed. 
But  there  was  something  else,  too  —  her  sweet, 
smothered  words  in  his  ear :  "  Oh,  my  boy,  my 
boy  —  oh,  your  father,  your  father  !  "  Neither 
the  sense  of  pleasure  nor  that  of  pain,  with  Lady 
Agnes  (and  indeed  with  most  of  the  persons  with 
whom  this  history  is  concerned),  was  a  liberation 
of  chatter ;  so  that  for  a  minute  all  she  said  again 
was,  "  I  think  of  Sir  Nicholas.  I  wish  he  were 
here  ; "  addressing  the  words  to  Julia,  who  had 
wandered  forward  without  looking  at  the  mother 
and  son. 

"  Poor  Sir  Nicholas ! "  said  Mrs.  Dallow, 
vaguely. 

"Did  you  make  another  speech?"  Lady  Ag- 
nes asked. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  did  I  ?  "  Nick  inquired. 

"  I  don't  know  !  "  Mrs.  Dallow  replied,  with  her 
back  turned,  doing  something  to  her  hat  before 
the  glass. 

"  Oh,  I  can  fancy  the  confusion,  the  bewilder- 
ment !  "  said  Lady  Agnes,  in  a  tone  rich  in  polit- 
ical reminiscences. 

"  It  was  really  immense  fun  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Dallow. 

"  Dear  Julia  !  "  Lady  Agnes  went  on.  Then 
she  added,  "  It  was  you  who  made  it  sure." 

"  There  are  a  lot  of  people  coming  to  dinner," 
said  Julia. 

"  Perhaps  you  '11  have  to  speak  again,"  Lady 
Agnes  smiled  at  her  son. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  263 

"Thank  you;  I  like  the  way  you  talk  about 
it !  "  cried  Nick.  "  I  'm  like  lago  :  '  from  this 
time  forth  I  never  will  speak  word  ! '  " 

"Don't  say  that,  Nick,"  said  his  mother,  gravely. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  ;  he  "11  jabber  like  a  magpie  ! " 
And  Mrs.  Dallow  went  out  of  the  room. 

Nick  had  flung  himself  upon  a  sofa  with  an  air 
of  weariness,  though  not  of  completely  vanished 
cheer ;  and  Lady  Agnes  stood  before  him,  finger- 
ing her  rose  and  looking  down  at  him.  His  eyes 
looked  away  from  hers ;  they  seemed  fixed  on 
something  she  could  not  see.  "  I  hope  you  've 
thanked  Julia,"  Lady  Agnes  remarked. 

"  Why,  of  course,  mother." 

"  She  has  done  as  much  as  if  you  had  n't  been 
sure." 

"  I  was  n't  in  the  least  sure  —  and  she  has  done 
everything." 

"  She  has  been  too  good  —  but  we  've  done 
something.  I  hope  you  don't  leave  out  your  fa- 
ther," Lady  Agnes  amplified,  as  Nick's  glance 
appeared  for  a  moment  to  question  her  "we." 

"  Never,  never  !  "  Nick  uttered  these  words 
perhaps  a  little  mechanically,  but  the  next  minute 
he  continued,  as  if  he  had  suddenly  been  moved 
to  think  what  he  could  say  that  would  give  his 
mother  most  pleasure :  "  Of  course  his  name  has 
worked  for  me.  Gone  as  he  is,  he  is  still  a  living 
force."  He  felt  a  good  deal  of  a  hypocrite,  but 
one  did  n't  win  a  seat  every  day  in  the  year. 
Probably,  indeed,  he  should  never  win  another. 


264  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  He  hears  you,  he  watches  you,  he  rejoices  in 
you,"  Lady  Agnes  declared. 

.This  idea  was  oppressive  to  Nick  —  that  of  the 
rejoicing  almost  as  much  as  of  the  watching.  He 
had  made  his  concession,  but,  with  a  certain  im- 
pulse to  divert  his  mother  from  following  up  her 
advantage,  he  broke  out :  "Julia 's  a  tremendously 
effective  woman." 

"  Of  course  she  is  ! "  answered  Lady  Agnes, 
knowingly. 

"  Her  charming  appearance  is  half  the  battle," 
said  Nick,  explaining  a  little  coldly  what  he 
meant.  But  he  felt  that  his  coldness  was  an  in- 
adequate protection  to  him  when  he  heard  his 
mother  observe,  with  something  of  the  same  sa- 
pience — 

"  A  woman  is  always  effective  when  she  likes 
a  person." 

It  discomposed  him  to  be  described  as  a  person 
liked,  and  by  a  woman ;  and  he  asked  abruptly : 
'•  When  are  you  going  away  ?  " 

"  The  first  moment  that 's  civil  —  to-morrow 
morning.  You  '11  stay  here,  I  hope." 

"  Stay  ?     What  shall  I  stay  for  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  might  stay  to  thank  her." 

"  I  have  everything  to  do." 

"  I  thought  everything  was  done,"  said  Lady 
Agnes. 

"  Well,  that 's  why,"  her  son  replied,  not  very 
lucidly.  "  I  want  to  do  other  things  —  quite 
other  things.  I  should  like  to  take  the  nex? 
train."  And  Nick  looked  at  his  watch. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  26$ 

"  When  there  are  people  coming  to  dinner  to 
meet  you  ? " 

"  They  '11  meet  You  —  that 's  better." 

"  I  'm  sorry  any  one  is  coming,"  Lady  Agnes 
said,  in  a  tone  unencouraging  to  a  deviation  from 
the  reality  of  things.  "  I  wish  we  were  alone  — 
just  as  a  family.  It  would  please  Julia  to-day  to 
feel  that  we  are  one.  Do  stay  with  her  to- 
morrow." 

"  How  will  that  do,  when  she 's  alone  ? " 

"  She  won't  be  alone,  with  Mrs.  Gresham." 

"  Mrs.  Gresham  does  n't  count." 

"  That 's  precisely  why  I  want  you  to  stop. 
And  her  cousin,  almost  her  brother :  what  an 
idea  that  it  won't  do  !  Have  n't  you  stayed  here 
before,  when  there  has  been  no  one  ? " 

"  I  have  never  stayed  much,  and  there  have 
always  been  people.  At  any  rate,  now  it 's  dif- 
ferent." 

"  It's  just  because  it  is  different  Besides,  it 
is  n't  different,  and  it  never  was,"  said  Lady  Ag- 
nes, more  incoherent,  in  her  earnestness,  than  it 
often  happened  to  her  to  be.  "  She  always  liked 
you,  and  she  likes  you  now  more  than  ever,  if 
you  call  that  different !  "  Nick  got  up  at  this 
and,  without  meeting  her  eyes,  walked  to  one  of 
the  windows,  where  he  stood  with  his  back  turned, 
looking  out  on  the  great  greenness.  She  watched 
him  a  moment,  and  she  might  well  have  been 
wishing,  while  he  remained  gazing  there,  as  it  ap- 
peared, that  it  would  come  to  him  with  the  same 


266  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

force  as  it  had  come  to  herself  (very  often  before, 
but  during  these  last  days  more  than  ever),  that 
the  level  lands  of  Harsh,  stretching  away  before 
the  window,  the  French  garden,  with  its  sym- 
metry, its  screens  and  its  statues,  and  a  great 
many  more  things,  of  which  these  were  the  su- 
perficial token,  were  Julia's  very  own,  to  do  with 
exactly  as  she  liked.  No  word  of  appreciation 
or  envy,  however,  dropped  from  the  young  man's 
lips,  and  his  mother  presently  went  on  :  "  What 
could  be  more  natural  than  that,  after  your  trium- 
phant contest,  you  and  she  should  have  lots  to 
settle  and  to  talk  about  —  no  end  of  practical 
questions,  no  end  of  business  ?  Are  n't  you  her 
member,  and  can't  her  member  pass  a  day  with 
her,  and  she  a  great  proprietor  ? " 

Nick  turned  round  at  this,  with  an  odd  expres- 
sion. "  Her  member  —  am  I  hers  ?  " 

Lady  Agnes  hesitated  a  moment  ;  she  felt  that 
she  had  need  of  all  her  tact.  "  Well,  if  the  place 
is  hers,  and  you  represent  the  place  —  "  she  began. 
But  she  went  no  further,  for  Nick  interrupted 
her  with  a  laugh. 

"  What  a  droll  thing  to  '  represent,'  when  one 
thinks  of  it !  And  what  does  it  represent,  poor 
stupid  little  borough,  with  its  smell  of  meal  and 
its  curiously  fat-faced  inhabitants  ?  Did  you  ever 
see  such  a  collection  of  fat  faces,  turned  up  at 
the  hustings  ?  They  looked  like  an  enormous 
sofa,  with  the  cheeks  for  the  gathers  and  the  eyes 
for  the  buttons." 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  267 

"  Oh,  well,  the  next  time  you  shall  have  a  great 
town,"  Lady  Agnes  replied,  smiling  and  feeling 
that  she  was  tactful. 

"  It  will  only  be  a  bigger  sofa!  I'm  joking, 
of  course,"  Nick  went  on,  "and  I  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  myself.  They  have  done  me  the 
honor  to  elect  me,  and  I  shall  never  say  a  word 
that 's  not  civil  about  them,  poor  dears.  But  even 
a  new  member  may  joke  with  his  mother." 

"  I  wish  you  'd  be  serious  with  your  mother," 
said  Lady  Agnes,  going  nearer  to  him. 

"  The  difficulty  is  that  I  'm  two  men  ;  it 's  the 
strangest  thing  that  ever  was,"  Nick  pursued, 
bending  his  bright  face  upon  her.  "  I  'm  two 
quite  distinct  human  beings,  who  have  scarcely  a 
point  in  common ;  not  even  the  memory,  on  the 
part  of  one,  of  the  achievements  or  the  adven- 
tures of  the  other.  One  man  wins  the  seat,  but 
it 's  the  other  fellow  who  sits  in  it." 

"  Oh,  Nick,  don't  spoil  your  victory  by  your 
perversity ! "  Lady  Agnes  cried,  clasping  her 
hands  to  him. 

"  I  went  through  it  with  great  glee  —  I  won't 
deny  that ;  it  excited  me,  it  interested  me,  it 
amused  me.  When  once  I  was  in  it  I  liked  it. 
But  now  that  I  'm  out  of  it  again  —  " 

"  Out  of  it  ? "  His  mother  stared.  "  Is  n't  the 
whole  point  that  you  're  in  ? " 

"  Ah,  now  I  'm  only  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons." 

For  an   instant  Lady  Agnes  seemed   not  to 


268  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

understand  and  to  be  on  the  point  of  laying  her 
finger  quickly  to  her  lips  with  a  "  Hush  ! "  as 
if  the  late  Sir  Nicholas  might  have  heard  the 
"only."  Then,  as  if  a  comprehension  of  the 
young  man's  words  promptly  superseded  that 
impulse,  she  replied  with  force :  "  You  will  be  in 
the  Lords  the  day  you  determine  to  get  there." 

This  futile  remark  made  Nick  laugh  afresh,  and 
not  only  laugh,  but  kiss  her,  which  was  always 
an  intenser  form  of  mystification  for  poor  Lady 
Agnes,  and  apparently  the  one  he  liked  best  to 
practice  ;  after  which  he  said,  "  The  odd  thing 
is,  you  know,  that  Harsh  has  no  wants.  At  least 
it 's  not  sharply,  not  eloquently  conscious  of  them. 
We  all  talked  them  over  together,  and  I  promised 
to  carry  them  in  my  heart  of  hearts.  But  upon 
my  word  I  can't  remember  one  of  them.  Julia 
says  the  wants  of  Harsh  are  simply  the  national 
wants  —  rather  a  pretty  phrase  for  Julia.  She 
means  she  does  everything  for  the  place  ;  she 's 
really  their  member,  and  this  house  in  which  we 
stand  is  their  legislative  chamber.  Therefore 
the  lacuna  that  I  have  undertaken  to  fill  up  are 
the  national  wants.  It  will  be  rather  a  job  to 
rectify  some  of  them,  won't  it  ?  I  don't  represent 
the  appetites  of  Harsh  —  Harsh  is  gorged.  I 
represent  the  ideas  of  my  party.  That 's  what 
Julia  says." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  what  Julia  says  ! "  Lady 
Agnes  broke  out,  impatiently.  This  impatience 
made  it  singular  that  the  very  next  words  she 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  269 

uttered  should  be  :  "  My  dearest  son,  I  wish  to 
heaven  you  'd  marry  her.  It  would  be  so  fitting 
now  !  "  she  added. 

"  Why  now  ?  "  asked  Nick,  frowning. 

"  She  has  shown  you  such  sympathy,  such  de- 
votion." 

"  Is  it  for  that  she  has  shown  it  ? " 

"Ah,  you  might  feel  —  I  can't  tell  you  !  "  said 
Lady  Agnes,  reproachfully. 

Nick  blushed  at  this,  as  if  what  he  did  feel  was 
the  reproach.  "  Must  I  marry  her  because  you 
like  her  ? " 

"  I  ?  Why,  we  are  all  as  fond  of  her  as  we 
can  be." 

"  Dear  mother,  I  hope  that  any  woman  I  ever 
may  marry  will  be  a  person  agreeable  not  only 
to  you,  but  also,  since  you  make  a  point  of  it,  to 
Grace  and  Biddy.  But  I  must  tell  you  this  — 
that  I  shall  marry  no  woman  I  am  not  unmistak- 
ably in  love  with." 

"And  why  are  you  not  in  love  with  Julia  — 
charming,  clever,  generous  as  she  is  ? "  Lady 
Agnes  laid  her  hands  on  him  —  she  held  him 
tight.  "  My  darling  Nick,  if  you  care  anything 
in  the  world  to  make  me  happy,  you  '11  stay  over 
here  to-morrow  and  be  nice  to  her." 

"  Be  nice  to  her  ?  Do  you  mean  propose  to 
her?" 

"With  a  single  word,  with  the  glance  of  an 
eye,  the  movement  of  your  little  finger  "  —  and 
Lady  Agnes  paused,  looking  intensely,  implor- 


2/O  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

ingly  up  into  Nick's  face  —  "  in  less  time  than  it 
takes  me  to  say  what  I  say  now,  you  may  have 
it  all."  As  he  made  no  answer,  only  returning 
her  look,  she  added  insistently,  "  You  know  she  's 
a  fine  creature  —  you  know  she  is  !  " 

"  Dearest  mother,  what  I  seem  to  know  better 
than  anything  else  in  the  world  is  that  I  love  my 
freedom.  I  set  it  far  above  everything." 

"Your  freedom?  What  freedom  is  there  in 
being  poor  ?  Talk  of  that  when  Julia  puts  every- 
thing that  she  possesses  at  your  feet !  " 

"I  can't  talk  of  it,  mother — it's  too  terrible 
an  idea.  And  I  can't  talk  of  her,  nor  of  what  I 
think  of  her.  You  must  leave  that  to  me.  I  do 
her  perfect  justice." 

"  You  don't,  or  you  'd  marry  her  to-morrow. 
You  would  feel  that  the  opportunity  is  exquisitely 
rare,  with  everything  in  the  world  to  make  it  per- 
fect. Your  father  would  have  valued  it  for  you 
beyond  everything.  Think  a  little  what  would 
have  given  him  pleasure.  That 's  what  I  meant 
when  I  spoke  just  now  of  us  all.  It  was  n't  of 
Grace  and  Biddy  I  was  thinking  —  fancy  !  —  it 
was  of  him.  He 's  with  you  always  ;  he  takes  with 
you,  at  your  side,  every  step  that  you  take  your- 
self. He  would  bless  devoutly  your  marriage  to 
Julia ;  he  would  feel  what  it  would  be  for  you  and 
for  us  all.  I  ask  for  no  sacrifice,  and  he  would 
ask  for  none.  We  only  ask  that  you  don't  com- 
mit the  crime  —  " 

Nick  Dormer  stopped  her  with  another  kiss ; 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  2/1 

he  murmured,  "  Mother,  mother,  mother  ! "  as  he 
bent  over  her. 

He  wished  her  not  to  go  on,  to  let  him  off ; 
but  the  deep  deprecation  in  his  voice  did  not 
prevent  her  saying  :  "  You  know  it  —  you  know 
it  perfectly.  All,  and  more  than  all  that  I  can 
tell  you,  you  know." 

He  drew  her  closer,  kissed  her  again,  held  her 
there  as  he  would  have  held  a  child  in  a  par- 
oxysm, soothing  her  silently  till  it  should  pass 
away.  Her  emotion  had  brought  the  tears  to  her 
eyes  ;  she  dried  them  as  she  disengaged  herself. 
The  next  moment,  however,  she  resumed,  attack- 
ing him  again  : 

"  For  a  public  man  she  would  be  the  ideal  com- 
panion. She  's  made  for  public  life  ;  she  's  made 
to  shine,  to  be  concerned  in  great  things,  to  oc- 
cupy a  high  position  and  to  help  him  on.  She 
would  help  you  in  everything,  as  she  has  helped 
you  in  this.  Together,  there  is  nothing  you 
could  n't  do.  You  can  have  the  first  house  in 
England  — yes,  the  first !  What  freedom  is  there 
in  being  poor  ?  How  can  you  do  anything  without 
money,  and  what  money  can  you  make  for  your- 
self —  what  money  will  ever  come  to  you  ?  That 's 
the  crime  —  to  throw  away  such  an  instrument  of 
power,  such  a  blessed  instrument  of  good." 

"  It  is  n't  everything  to  be  rich,  mother,"  said 
Nick,  looking  at  the  floor  in  a  certain  patient 
way,  with  a  provisional  docility  and  his  hands  in 
his  pockets.  "  And  it  is  n't  so  fearful  to  be 
poor." 


2/2  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  It 's  vile  —  it  's  abject.     Don't  I  know  ? " 

"  Are  you  in  such  acute  want  ?  "  Nick  asked, 
smiling. 

"  Ah,  don't  make  me  explain  what  you  have 
only  to  look  at  to  see !  "  his  mother  returned,  as 
if  with  a  richness  of  allusion  to  dark  elements  in 
her  fate. 

"  Besides,"  Nick  went  on,  "  there 's  other  money 
in  the  world  than  Julia's.  I  might  come  by  some 
of  that." 

"  Do  you  mean  Mr.  Carteret's  ?  "  The  question 
made  him  laugh,  as  her  feeble  reference,  five 
minutes  before,  to  the  House  of  Lords  had  done. 
But  she  pursued,  too  full  of  her  idea  to  take  ac- 
count of  such  a  poor  substitute  for  an  answer : 
"  Let  me  tell  you  one  thing,  for  I  have  known 
Charles  Carteret  much  longer  than  you,  and  I  un- 
derstand him  better.  There  's  nothing  you  could 
do  that  would  do  you  more  good  with  him  than 
to  marry  Julia.  I  know  the  way  he  looks  at 
things,  and  I  know  exactly  how  that  would  strike 
him.  It  would  please  him,  it  would  charm  him  ; 
it  would  be  the  thing  that  would  most  prove  to 
him  that  you  're  in  earnest.  You  need  to  do 
something  of  that  sort." 

"  Have  n't  I  come  in  for  Harsh  ? "  asked  Nick. 

"  Oh,  he  's-  very  canny.  He  likes  to  see  peo- 
ple rich.  Then  he  believes  in  them  —  then  he  's 
likely  to  believe  more.  He's  kind  to  you  be- 
cause you  're  your  father's  son  ;  but  I  'm  sure 
your  being  poor  takes  just  so  much  off." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  2/3 

"  He  can  remedy  that  so  easily,"  said  Nick, 
smiling  still.  "  Is  being  kept  by  Julia  what  you 
call  making  an  effort  for  myself  ? " 

Lady  Agnes  hesitated;  then,  "You  needn't 
insult  Julia  !  "  she  replied. 

"  Moreover,  if  I  've  her  money,  I  sha'n't  want 
his,"  Nick  remarked. 

Again  his  mother  waited  an  instant  before  an- 
swering ;  after  which  she  produced :  "  And  pray 
would  n't  you  wish  to  be  independent  ? " 

"  You  're  delightful,  dear  mother  — you  're  very 
delightful !  I  particularly  like  your  conception 
of  independence.  Doesn't  it  occur  to  you  that 
at  a  pinch  I  might  improve  my  fortune  by  some 
other  means  than  by  making  a  mercenary  mar- 
riage or  by  currying  favor  with  a  rich  old  gentle- 
man ?  Does  n't  it  occur  to  you  that  I  might 
work  ? " 

"  Work  at  politics  ?  How  does  that  make 
money,  honourably  ? " 

"  I  don't  mean  at  politics." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  then  ? "  Lady  Agnes  de- 
manded, looking  at  him  as  if  she  challenged  him 
to  phrase  it  if  he  dared.  Her  eye  appeared  to 
have  a  certain  effect  upon  him,  for  he  remained 
silent,  and  she  continued  :  "  Are  you  elected  or 
not  ? " 

"  It  seems  a  dream,"  said  Nick. 

"  If  you  are,  act  accordingly,  and  don't  mix  up 
things  that  are  as  wide  asunder  as  the  poles  ! " 
She  spoke  with  sternness,  and  his  silence  might 


274  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

have  been  an  admission  that  her  sternness  was 
wholesome  to  him.  Possibly  she  was  touched  by 
it;  at  any  rate,  after  a  few  moments,  during 
which  nothing  more  passed  between  them,  she 
appealed  to  him  in  a  gentler  and  more  anxious 
key,  which  had  this  virtue  to  touch  him,  that  he 
knew  it  was  absolutely  the  first  time  in  her  life 
Lady  Agnes  had  begged  for  anything.  She  had 
never  been  obliged  to  beg ;  she  had  got  on  with- 
out it  and  most  things  had  come  to  her.  He 
might  judge,  therefore,  in  what  a  light  she  re- 
garded this  boon  for  which,  in  her  old  age,  she 
humbled  herself  to  be  a  suitor.  There  was  such 
a  pride  in  her  that  he  could  feel  what  it  cost  her 
to  go  on  her  knees  even  to  her  son.  He  did 
judge  how  it  was  in  his  power  to  gratify  her; 
and  as  he  was  generous  .and  imaginative  he  was 
stirred  and  shaken  as  it  came  over  him  in  a  wave 
of  figurative  suggestion  that  he  might  make  up 
to  her  for  many  things.  He  scarcely  needed  to 
hear  her  ask,  with  a  pleading  wail  that  was  almost 
tragic :  "  Don't  you  see  how  things  have  turned 
out  for  us ;  don't  you  know  how  unhappy  I  am 
—  don't  you  know  what  a  bitterness  —  ?"  She 
stopped  for  a  moment,  with  a  sob  in  her  voice, 
and  he  recognized  vividly  this  last  tribulation, 
the  unhealed  wound  of  her  bereavement  and  the 
way  she  had  sunken  from  eminence  to  flatness. 
"  You  know  what  Percival  is  and  the  comfort  I 
have  from  him.  You  know  the  property  and 
what  he  is  doing  with  it  and  what  comfort  I  get 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  2?$ 

from  that!  Everything's  dreary  but  what  you 
can  do  for  us.  Everything 's  odious,  down  to  liv- 
ing in  a  hole  with  one's  girls  who  don't  marry. 
Grace  is  impossible  —  I  don't  know  what 's  the 
matter  with  her  ;  no  one  will  look  at  her,  and 
she  's  so  conceited  with  it  —  sometimes  I  feel 
as  if  I  could  beat  her  !  And  Biddy  will  never 
marry,  and  we  are  three  dismal  women  in  a  filthy 
house ;  and  what  are  three  dismal  women,  more 
or  less,  in  London  ?  " 

So,  with  an  unexpected  rage  of  self-exposure, 
Lady  Agnes  talked  of  her  disappointments  and 
troubles,  tore  away  the  veil  from  her  sadness  and 
soreness.  It  almost  frightened  Nick  to  perceive 
how  she  hated  her  life,  though  at  another  time  it 
might  have  amused  him  to  note  how  she  despised 
her  gardenless  house.  Of  course  it  was  not  a 
country-house,  and  Lady  Agnes  could  not  get 
used  to  that.  Better  than  he  could  do  —  for  it  was 
the  sort  of  thing  into  which,  in  any  case,  a  wo- 
man enters  more  than  a  man  —  she  felt  what  a  lift 
into  brighter  air,  what  a  regilding  of  his  sisters' 
possibilities,  his  marriage  to  Julia  would  effect 
for  them.  He  could  n't  trace  the  difference,  but 
his  mother  saw  it  all  as  a  shining  picture.  She 
made  the  vision  shine  before  him  now,  somehow, 
as  she  stood  there  like  a  poor  woman  crying  for 
a  kindness.  What  was  filial  in  him,  all  the  piety 
that  he  owed,  especially  to  the  revived  spirit  of 
his  father,  more  than  ever  present  on  a  day  of 
such  public  pledges,  was  capable  from  one  mo- 


2/6  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

ment  to  the  other  of  trembling  into  sympathetic 
response.  He  had  the  gift,  so  embarrassing  when 
it  is  a  question  of  consistent  action,  of  seeing  in 
an  imaginative,  interesting  light  anything  that  il- 
lustrated forcibly  the  life  of  another  :  such  things 
effected  a  union  with  something  in  his  life,  and 
the  recognition  of  them  was  ready  to  become  a 
form  of  enthusiasm  in  which  there  was  no  con- 
sciousness of  sacrifice  —  none  scarcely  of  merit. 

Rapidly,  at  present,  this  change  of  scene  took 
place  before  his  spiritual  eye.  He  found  himself 
believing,  because  his  mother  communicated  the 
belief,  that  it  was  in  his  option  to  transform  the 
social  outlook  of  the  three  women  who  clung  to 
him  and  who  declared  themselves  dismal.  This 
was  not  the  highest  kind  of  inspiration,  but  it  was 
moving,  and  it  associated  itself  with  dim  confu- 
sions of  figures  in  the  past  —  figures  of  authority 
and  expectancy.  Julia's  wide  kingdom  opened 
out  around  him,  making  the  future  almost  a  daz- 
zle of  happy  power.  His  mother  and  sisters 
floated  in  the  rosy  element  with  beaming  faces, 
in  transfigured  safety.  "  The  first  house  in  Eng- 
land," she  had  called  it ;  but  it  might  be  the  first 
house  in  Europe,  the  first  house  in  the  world,  by 
the  fine  air  and  the  high  humanities  that  should 
fill  it.  Everything  that  was  beautiful  in  the  place 
where  he  stood  took  on  a  more  delicate  charm ; 
the  house  rose  over  his  head  like  a  museum  of 
exquisite  rewards,  and  the  image  of  poor  George 
Dallow  hovered  there  obsequious,  as  if  to  confess 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  2/7 

that  he  had  only  been  the  modest,  tasteful  fore- 
runner, appointed  to  set  it  all  in  order  and  punc- 
tually retire.  Lady  Agnes's  tone  penetrated 
further  into  Nick's  spirit  than  it  had  done  yet,  as 
she  syllabled  to  him,  supremely,  "  Don't  desert 
us  —  don't  desert  us." 

"  Don't  desert  you  ? " 

"  Be  great  —  be  great,"  said  his  mother.  "I  'm 
old,  I  've  lived,  I  've  seen.  Go  in  for  a  great  ma- 
terial position.  That  will  simplify  everything 
else." 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  you  —  anything, 
everything  I  can.  Trust  me  —  leave  me  alone," 
said  Nick  Dormer. 

"  And  you  '11  stay  over  —  you  '11  spend  the  day 
with  her  ? " 

"  I  '11  stay  till  she  turns  me  out ! " 

His  mother  had  hold  of  his  hand  again  now  ; 
she  raised  it  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it.  "  My 
dearest  son,  my  only  joy  ! "  Then,  "  I  don't  see 
how  you  can  resist  her,"  she  added. 

"  No  more  do  I !  " 

Lady  Agnes  looked  round  the  great  room  with 
a  soft  exhalation  of  gratitude  and  hope.  "If 
you  're  so  fond  of  art,  what  art  is  equal  to  all 
this?  The  joy  of  living  in  the  midst  of  it  —  of 
seeing  the  finest  works  every  day  !  You  '11  have 
everything  the  world  can  give." 

"  That 's  exactly  what  was  just  passing  in  my 
own  mind.  It 's  too  much." 

"Don't  be  selfish!" 


2/8  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Selfish  ?  "  Nick  repeated. 

"Don't  be  unselfish,  then.  You'll  share  it 
with  us." 

"  And  with  Julia  a  little,  I  hope,"  said  Nick. 

"  God  bless  you  ! "  cried  his  mother,  looking  up 
at  him.  Her  eyes  were  detained  by  the  sudden 
perception  of  something  in  his  own  that  was  not 
clear  to  her ;  but  before  she  had  time  to  ask  for 
an  explanation  of  it  Nick  inquired,  abruptly  : 

"  Why  do  you  talk  so  of  poor  Biddy  ?  Why 
won't  she  marry  ? " 

"  You  had  better  ask  Peter  Sherringham,"  said 
Lady  Agnes. 

"  What  has  he  got  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  How  odd  of  you  to  ask,  when  it 's  so  plain 
how  she  thinks  of  him  that  it 's  a  matter  of  com- 
mon chaff !  " 

"Yes,  we've  made  it  so,  and  she  takes  it  like 
an  angel.  But  Peter  likes  her." 

"  Does  he  ?  Then  it 's  the  more  shame  to  him 
to  behave  as  he  does.  He  had  better  leave  his 
actresses  alone.  That 's  the  love  of  art,  too  !  " 
laughed  Lady  Agnes. 

"  Biddy  's  so  charming  —  she  '11  marry  some 
one  else." 

"  Never,  if  she  loves  him.  But  Julia  will  bring 
it  about  —  Julia  will  help  her,"  said  Lady  Agnes, 
more  cheerfully.  "  That 's  what  you  '11  do  for  us 
—  that  she  '11  do  everything  !  " 

"  Why  then  more  than  now  ?  "  Nick  asked. 

"Because  we  shall  be  yours." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  2/9 

"You  are  mine  already." 

"Yes,  but  she  isn't.  However,  she's  as 
good  !  "  exulted  Lady  Agnes. 

"  She  '11  turn  me  out  of  the  house,"  said  Nick. 

"  Come  and  tell  me  when  she  does  !  But  there 
she  is  —  go  to  her  !  "  And  she  gave  him  a  push 
toward  one  of  the  windows  that  stood  open  to 
the  terrace.  Mrs.  Dallow  had  become  visible 
outside ;  she  passed  slowly  along  the  terrace, 
with  her  long  shadow.  "  Go  to  her,"  Lady  Ag- 
nes repeated  —  "  she 's  waiting  for  you." 

Nick  went  out  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was 
as  ready  to  pass  that  way  as  any  other,  and  at 
the  same  moment  his  two  sisters,  freshly  restored 
from  the  excitements  of  the  town,  came  into  the 
room  from  another  quarter. 

"  We  go  home  to-morrow,  but  Nick  will  stay  a 
day  or  two,"  their  mother  said  to  them. 

"Dear  old  Nick!"  Grace  ejaculated,  looking 
at  Lady  Agnes. 

"  He  's  going  to  speak,"  the  latter  went  on. 
"  But  don't  mention  it." 

"Don't  mention  it  ?  "  said  Biddy,  staring. 
"  Has  n't  he  spoken  enough,  poor  fellow  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  Julia,"  Lady  Agnes  replied. 

"  Don't  you  understand,  you  goose  ? "  Grace 
exclaimed  to  her  sister. 


XIV. 

THE  next  morning  brought  Nick  Dormer  many 
letters  and  telegrams,  and  his  coffee  was  placed 
beside  him  in  his  room,  where  he  remained 
until  noon  answering  these  communications. 
When  he  came  out  he  learned  that  his  mother 
and  sisters  had  left  the  house.  This  information 
was  given  him  by  Mrs.  Gresham,  whom  he  found 
at  one  of  the  tables  in  the  library,  dealing  with 
her  own  voluminous  budget.  She  was  a  lady 
who  received  thirty  letters  a  day,  the  subject- 
matter  of  which,  as  well  as  of  her  punctual  an- 
swers, in  a  hand  that  would  have  been  "  ladylike  " 
in  a  manageress,  was  a  puzzle  to  those  who  ob- 
served her. 

She  told  Nick  that  Lady  Agnes  had  not  been 
willing  to  disturb  him  at  his  work  to  say  good- 
by,  knowing  she  should  see  him  in  a  day  or  two 
in  town.  Nick  was  amused  at  the  way  his  mother 
had  stolen  off ;  as  if  she  feared  that  further  con- 
versation might  weaken  the  spell  she  believed 
herself  to  have  wrought.  The  place  was  cleared, 
moreover,  of  its  other  visitors,  so  that,  as  Mrs. 
Gresham  said,  the  fun  was  at  an  end.  This  lady 
expressed  the  idea  that  the  fun  was,  after  all, 
rather  a  bore.  At  any  rate,  now  they  could  rest, 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  28 1 

Mrs.  Dallow  and  Nick  and  she,  and  she  was  glad 
Nick  was  going  to  stay  for  a  little  quiet.  She 
liked  Harsh  best  when  it  was  not  en  f$te :  then 
one  could  see  what  a  sympathetic  old  place  it 
was.  She  hoped  Nick  was  not  dreadfully  tired  ; 
she  feared  Julia  was  completely  done  up.  Mrs. 
Dallow,  however,  had  transported  her  exhaustion 
to  the  grounds  —  she  was  wandering  about  some- 
where. She  thought  more  people  would  be  com- 
ing to  the  house,  people  from  the  town,  people 
from  the  country,  and  had  gone  out  so  as  not  to 
have  to  see  them.  She  had  not  gone  far  —  Nick 
could  easily  find  her.  Nick  intimated  that  he 
himself  was  not  eager  for  more  people,  where- 
upon Mrs.  Gresham  said,  rather  archly,  smiling  : 
"  And  of  course  you  hate  me  for  being  here." 
He  made  some  protest,  and  she  added,  "  But  I  'm 
almost  a  part  of  the  house,  you  know  —  I  'm  one 
of  the  chairs  or  tables."  Nick  declared  that  he 
had  never  seen  a  house  so  well  furnished,  and 
Mrs.  Gresham  said :  "  I  believe  there  are  to  be 
some  people  to  dinner  :  rather  an  interference, 
is  n't  it  ?  Julia  lives  so  in  public.  But  it 's  all 
for  you."  And  after  a  moment  she  added,  "  It 's 
a  wonderful  constitution."  Nick  at  first  failed 
to  seize  her  allusion  —  he  thought  it  a  retarded 
political  reference,  a  sudden  tribute  to  the  great 
unwritten  instrument  by  which  they  were  all  gov- 
erned. He  was  on  the  point  of  saying,  "The 
British  ?  Wonderful !  "  when  he  perceived  that 
the  intention  of  his  interlocutress  was  to  praise 


282  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

Mrs.  Dallow's  fine  robustness.  "  The  surface  so 
delicate,  the  action  so  easy,  yet  the  frame  of 
steel." 

Nick  left  Mrs.  Gresham  to  her  correspondence 
and  went  out  of  the  course  ;  wondering,  as  he 
walked,  whether  she  wanted  him  to  do  the  same 
thing  that  his  mother  wanted,  so  that  her  words 
had  been  intended  for  a  prick  —  whether  even 
the  two  ladies  had  talked  over  their  desire  to- 
gether. Mrs.  Gresham  was  a  married  woman 
who  was  usually  taken  for  a  widow  ;  mainly  be- 
cause she  was  perpetually  "sent  for"  by  her 
friends,  and  her  friends  never  sent  for  Mr. 
Gresham.  She  came,  in  every  case,  and  had  the 
air  of  being  rtpandue  at  the  expense  of  dingier 
belongings.  Her  figure  was  admired —  that  is  it 
was  sometimes  mentioned  —  and  she  dressed  as 
if  it  was  expected  of  her  to  be  smart,  like  a  young 
woman  in  a  shop  or  a  servant  much  in  view.  She 
slipped  in  and  out,  accompanied  at  the  piano, 
talked  to  the  neglected  visitors,  walked  in  the 
rain,  and,  after  the  arrival  of  the  post,  usually  had 
conferences  with  her  hostess,  during  which  she 
stroked  her  chin  and  looked  familiarly  responsi- 
ble. It  was  her  peculiarity  that  people  were  al- 
ways saying  things  to  her  in  a  lowered  voice. 
She  had  all  sorts  of  acquaintances,  and  in  small 
establishments  she  sometimes  wrote  the  menus. 
Great  ones,  on  the  other  hand,  had  no  terrors  for 
her :  she  had  seen  too  many.  No  one  had  ever 
discovered  whether  any  one  else  paid  her. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  283 

If  Lady  Agnes,  in  a  lowered  tone,  had  dis- 
cussed with  her  the  propriety  of  a  union  between 
the  mistress  of  Harsh  and  the  hope  of  the  Dor- 
mers, our  young  man  could  take  the  circumstance 
for  granted  without  irritation  and  even  with  cur- 
sory indulgence  ;  for  he  was  not  unhappy  now, 
and  his  spirit  was  light  and  clear.  The  summer 
day  was  splendid,  and  the  world,  as  he  looked  at 
it  from  the  terrace,  offered  no  more  worrying  am- 
biguity than  a  vault  of  airy  blue  arching  over  a 
lap  of  solid  green.  The  wide,  still  trees  in  the 
park  appeared  to  be  waiting  for  some  daily  in- 
spection, and  the  rich  fields,  with  their  official 
frill  of  hedges,  to  rejoice  in  the  light  which  ap- 
proved them  as  named  and  numbered  acres. 
The  place  looked  happy  to  Nick,  and  he  was 
struck  with  its  having  a  charm  to  which  he  had 
perhaps  not  hitherto  done  justice  ;  something  of 
the  impression  that  he  had  received,  when  he  was 
younger,  from  showy  "  views  "  of  fine  country- 
seats,  as  if  they  had  been  brighter  and  more 
established  than  life.  There  were  a  couple  of 
peacocks  on  the  terrace,  and  his  eye  was  caught 
by  the  gleam  of  the  swans  on  a  distant  lake,  where 
there  was  also  a  little  temple  on  an  island  ;  and 
these  objects  fell  in  with  his  humor,  which  at 
another  time  might  have  been  ruffled  by  them  as 
representing  the  Philistine  in  ornament. 

It  was  certainly  a  proof  of  youth  and  health  on 
his  part  that  his  spirits  had  risen  as  the  tumult 
rose,  and  that  after  he  had  taken  his  jump  into 


284  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

the  turbid  waters  of  a  contested  election  he  had 
been  able  to  tumble  and  splash,  not  only  without 
a  sense  of  awkwardness,  but  with  a  considerable 
capacity  for  the  frolic.  Tepid  as  we  saw  him  in 
Paris,  he  had  found  his  relation  to  his  opportunity 
surprisingly  altered  by  his  little  journey  across 
the  Channel.  He  saw  things  in  a  new  perspec- 
tive, and  he  breathed  an  air  that  excited  him  un- 
expectedly. There  was  something  in  it  that  went 
to  his  head  —  an  element  that  his  mother  and  his 
sisters,  his  father  from  beyond  the  grave,  Julia 
Dallow,  the  Liberal  party  and  a  hundred  friends 
were  both  secretly  and  overtly  occupied  in  pump- 
ing into  it.  If  he  was  vague  about  success  he 
liked  the  fray,  and  he  had  a  general  rule  that 
when  one  was  in  a  muddle  there  was  refresh- 
ment in  action.  The  embarrassment,  that  is  the 
revival  of  skepticism,  which  might  produce  an 
inconsistency  shameful  to  exhibit  and  yet  very 
difficult  to  conceal,  was  safe  enough  to  come  later 
indeed,  at  the  risk  of  making  our  young  man 
appear  a  purely  whimsical  personage :  I  may  hint 
that  some  such  sickly  glow  had  even  now  begun 
to  color  one  quarter  of  his  mental  horizon. 

I  am  afraid,  moreover,  that  I  have  no  better 
excuse  for  him  than  the  one  he  had  touched  on 
in  the  momentous  conversation  with  his  mother 
which  I  have  thought  it  useful  to  reproduce  in 
full.  He  was  conscious  of  a  double  nature ; 
there  were  two  men  in  him,  quite  separate,  whose 
leading  features  had  little  in  common  and  each 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  285 

of  whom  insisted  on  having  an  independent  turn 
at  life.  Meanwhile,  if  he  was  adequately  aware 
that  the  bed  of  his  moral  existence  would  need  a 
good  deal  of  making  over  if  he  was  to  lie  upon  it 
without  unseemly  tossing,  he  was  also  alive  to 
the  propriety  of  not  parading  his  inconsistencies, 
not  letting  his  unrectified  interests  become  a 
spectacle  to  the  vulgar.  He  had  none  of  that 
wish  to  appear  complicated  which  is  at  the  bottom 
of  most  forms  of  fatuity ;  he  was  perfectly  willing 
to  pass  as  simple  ;  he  only  aspired  to  be  continu- 
ous. If  you  were  not  really  simple,  this  pre- 
sented difficulties ;  but  he  would  have  assented  to 
the  proposition  that  you  must  be  as  clever  as  you 
can  and  that  a  high  use  of  cleverness  is  in  con- 
suming the  smoke  of  your  inner  fire.  The  fire 
was  the  great  thing,  and  not  the  chimney.  He 
had  no  view  of  life  which  counted  out  the  need 
of  learning ;  it  was  teaching,  rather,  as  to  which 
he  was  conscious  of  no  particular  mission.  He 
liked  life,  liked  it  immensely,  and  was  willing  to 
study  the  ways  and  means  of  it  with  a  certain  pa- 
tience. He  cherished  the  usual  wise  monitions, 
such  as  that  one  was  not  to  make  a  fool  of  one's 
self  and  that  one  should  not  carry  on  one's  sub- 
jective experiments  in  public.  It  was  because, 
as  yet,  he  liked  life  in  general  better  than  it  was 
clear  to  him  that  he  liked  any  particular  branch 
of  it,  that  on  the  occasion  of  a  constituency's 
holding  out  a  cordial  hand  to  him,  while  it  ex- 
tended another  in  a  different  direction,  a  certain 


286  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

bloom  of  boyhood  that  was  on  him  had  not  re- 
sisted the  idea  of  a  match. 

He  rose  to  it  as  he  had  risen  to  matches  at 
school,  for  his  boyishness  could  take  a  pleasure 
in  an  inconsiderate  show  of  agility.  He  could 
meet  electors  and  conciliate  bores  and  compli- 
ment women  and  answer  questions  and  roll  off 
speeches  and  chaff  adversaries,  because  it  was 
amusing  and  slightly  dangerous,  like  playing 
football  or  ascending  an  Alp  —  pastimes  for 
which  nature  had  conferred  on  him  an  aptitude 
not  so  very  different  in  kind  from  a  gallant  readi- 
ness on  platforms.  There  were  two  voices  which 
told  him  that  all  this  was  not  really  action  at  all, 
but  only  a  pusillanimous  imitation  of  it :  one  of 
them  made  itself  fitfully  audible  in  the  depths  of 
his  own  spirit  and  the  other  spoke  in  the  equiv- 
ocal accents  of  a  very  crabbed  hand,  from  a  let- 
ter of  four  pages  by  Gabriel  Nash.  However, 
Nick  acted  as  much  as  possible  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, and  that  was  rectifying  —  it  brought 
with  it  enjoyment  and  a  working  faith.  He  had 
not  gone  counter  to  the  axiom  that  in  a  case  of 
doubt  one  was  to  hold  off  ;  for  that  applied  to 
choice,  and  he  had  not  at  present  the  slightest 
pretension  to  choosing.  He  knew  he  was  lifted 
along,  that  what  he  was  doing  was  not  first-rate, 
that  nothing  was  settled  by  it  and  that  if  there 
was  essentially  a  problem  in  his  life  it  would  only 
grow  tougher  with  keeping.  But  if  doing  one's 
sum  to-morrow  instead  of  to-day  does  not  make 
the  sum  easier,  it  at  least  makes  to-day  so. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  287 

Sometimes,  in  the  course  of  the  following  fort- 
night, it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  gone  in  for 
Harsh  because  he  was  sure  he  should  lose  ;  some- 
times he  foresaw  that  he  should  win  precisely  to 
punish  him  for  having  tried  and  for  his  want  of 
candor  ;  and  when  presently  he  did  win,  he  was 
almost  frightened  at  his  success.  Then  it  ap- 
peared to  him  that  he  had  done  something  even 
worse  than  not  choose  —  he  had  let  others  choose 
for  him.  The  beauty  of  it  was  that  they  had 
chosen  with  only  their  own  object  in  their  eye : 
for  what  did  they  know  about  his  strange  alterna- 
tive ?  He  was  rattled  about  so  for  a  fortnight 
(Julia  took  care  of  that)  that  he  had  no  time  to 
think  save  when  he  tried  to  remember  a  quota- 
tion or  an  American  story,  and  all  his  life  became 
an  overflow  of  verbiage.  Thought  retreated  be- 
fore increase  of  sound,  which  had  to  be  pleasant 
and  eloquent,  and  even  superficially  coherent, 
without  its  aid.  Nick  himself  was  surprised  at 
the  airs  he  could  play  ;  and  often  when,  the  last 
thing  at  night,  he  shut  the  door  of  his  room,  he 
mentally  exclaimed  that  he  had  had  no  idea  he 
was  such  a  mountebank. 

I  must  add  that  if  this  reflection  did  not  occupy 
him  long,  and  if  no  meditation,  after  his  return 
from  Paris,  held  him  for  many  moments,  there 
was  a  reason  better  even  than  that  he  was  tired, 
or  busy,  or  excited  by  the  agreeable  combination 
of  hits  and  hurrahs.  That  reason  was  simply 
Mrs.  Dallow,  who  had  suddenly  become  a  still 


288  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

larger  fact  in  his  consciousness  than  active  pol- 
itics. She  -was,  indeed,  active  politics  ;  that  is, 
f  the  politics  were  his,  how  little  soever,  the  ac- 
tivity was  hers.  She  had  ways  of  showing  she 
was  a  clever  woman  that  were  better  than  saying 
clever  things,  which  only  prove  at  the  most  that 
one  would  be  clever  if  one  could.  The  accom- 
plished fact  itself  was  the  demonstration  that 
Mrs.  Dallow  could ;  and  when  Nick  came  to  his 
senses,  after  the  proclamation  of  the  victor  and 
the  cessation  of  the  noise,  her  figure  was,  of  all 
the  queer  phantasmagoria,  the  most  substantial 
thing  that  survived.  She  had  been  always  there, 
passing,  repassing,  before  him,  beside  him,  behind 
him.  She  had  made  the  business  infinitely  pret- 
tier than  it  would  have  been  without  her,  added 
music  and  flowers  and  ices,  a  charm,  and  con- 
verted it  into  a  social  game  that  had  a  strain  of 
the  heroic  in  it.  It  was  a  garden-party  with 
something  at  stake,  or  to  celebrate  something  in 
advance,  with  the  people  let  in.  The  concluded 
affair  had  bequeathed  to  him  not  only  a  seat  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  but  a  perception  of  what 
women  may  do,  in  high  embodiments,  and  an 
abyss  of  intimacy  with  one  woman  in  particular. 
She  had  wrapped  him  up  in  something,  he 
did  n't  know  what  —  a  sense  of  facility,  an  over- 
powering fragrance  —  and  they  had  moved  to- 
gether in  an  immense  fraternity.  There  had 
been  no  love-making,  no  contact  that  was  only 
personal,  no  vulgarity  of  flirtation  :  the  hurry  of 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  289 

the  days  and  the  sharpness  with  which  they  both 
tended  to  an  outside  object  had  made  all  that 
irrelevant.  It  was  as  if  she  had  been  too  near 
for  him  to  see  her  separate  from  himself ;  but 
none  the  less,  when  he  now  drew  breath  and 
looked  back,  what  had  happened  met  his  eyes 
as  a  composed  picture  —  a  picture  of  which  the 
subject  was  inveterately  Julia  and  her  ponies  : 
Julia  wonderfully  fair  and  fine,  holding  her  head 
more  than  ever  in  the  manner  characteristic  of 
her,  brilliant,  benignant,  waving  her  whip,  cleav- 
ing the  crowd,  thanking  people  with  her  smile, 
carrying  him  beside  her,  carrying  him  to  his 
doom.  He  had  not  supposed  that  in  so  few  days 
he  had  driven  about  with  her  so  much  ;  but  the 
image  of  it  was  there,  in  his  consulted  conscience, 
as  well  as  in  a  personal  glow  not  yet  chilled  :  it 
looked  large  as  it  rose  before  him.  The  things 
his  mother  had  said  to  him  made  a  rich  enough 
frame  for  it,  and  the  whole  impression,  that  night, 
had  kept  him  much  awake. 


XV. 

WHILE,  after  leaving  Mrs.  Gresham,  he  was 
hesitating  which  way  to  go  and  was  on  the  point 
of  hailing  a  gardener  to  ask  if  Mrs.  Dallow  had 
been  seen,  he  noticed,  as  a  spot  of  color  in  an 
expanse  of  shrubbery,  a  far-away  parasol  moving 
in  the  direction  of  the  lake.  He  took  his  course 
that  way,  across  the  park,  and  as  the  bearer  of 
the  parasol  was  strolling  slowly  it  was  not  five 
minutes  before  he  had  joined  her.  He  went  to 
her  soundlessly  over  the  grass  (he  had  been  whis- 
tling at  first,  but  as  he  got  nearer  he  stopped), 
and  it  was  not  till  he  was  close  to  her  that  she 
looked  round.  He  had  watched  her  moving  as  if 
she  were  turning  things  over  in  her  mind,  brush- 
ing the  smooth  walks  and  the  clean  turf  with  her 
dress,  slowly  making  her  parasol  revolve  on  her 
shoulder  and  carrying  in  the  hand  which  hung 
beside  her  a  book  which  he  perceived  to  be  a 
monthly  review. 

"  I  came  out  to  get  away,"  she  remarked  when 
he  had  begun  to  walk  with  her. 

"  Away  from  me  ?  " 

"Ah,  that's  impossible,"  said  Mrs.  Dallow. 
Then  she  added,  "  The  day  is  so  nice." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  2QI 

"  Lovely  weather,"  Nick  dropped.  "  You  want 
to  get  away  from  Mrs.  Gresham,  I  suppose." 

Mrs.  Dallow  was  silent  a  moment.  "  From 
everything !  " 

"  Well,  I  want  to  get  away  too." 

"  It  has  been  such  a  racket.  Listen  to  the 
dear  birds." 

"  Yes,  our  noise  is  n't  so  good  as  theirs,"  said 
Nick.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  married  and  had 
shoes  and  rice  thrown  after  me,"  he  went  on. 
"  But  not  to  you,  Julia  —  nothing  so  good  as 
that." 

Mrs.  Dallow  made  no  answer  to  this  ;  she  only 
turned  her  eyes  on  the  ornamental  water,  which 
stretched  away  at  their  right.  In  a  moment  she 
exclaimed,  "  How  nasty  the  lake  looks ! "  and 
Nick  recognized  in  the  tone  of  the  words  a  mani- 
festation of  that  odd  shyness  —  a  perverse  stiff- 
ness at  a  moment  when  she  probably  only  wanted 
to  be  soft  —  which,  taken  in  combination  with  her 
other  qualities,  was  so  far  from  being  displeasing 
to  him  that  it  represented  her  nearest  approach 
to  extreme  charm.  He  was  not  shy  now,  for  he 
considered,  this  morning,  that  he  saw  things  very 
straight  and  in  a  sense  altogether  superior  and 
delightful.  This  enabled  him  to  be  generously 
sorry  for  his  companion,  if  he  were  the  reason  of 
her  being  in  any  degree  uncomfortable,  and  yet 
left  him  to  enjoy  the  prettiness  of  some  of  the 
signs  by  which  her  discomfort  was  revealed.  He 
would  not  insist  on  anything  yet :  so  he  observed 


2Q2  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

that  his  cousin's  standard  in  lakes  was  too  high, 
and  then  talked  a  little  about  his  mother  and  the 
girls,  their  having  gone  home,  his  not  having  seen 
them  that  morning,  Lady  Agnes's  deep  satisfac- 
tion in  his  victory  and  the  fact  that  she  would 
be  obliged  to  "  do  something  "  for  the  autumn  — 
take  a  house,  or  something. 

"  I  '11  lend  her  a  house,"  said  Mrs.  Dallow. 

"  Oh,  Julia,  Julia  ! "  Nick  exclaimed. 

But  Mrs.  Dallow  paid  no  attention  to  his  ex- 
clamation ;  she  only  held  up  her  review  and  said  : 
"See  what  I  have  brought  with  me  to  read  — 
Mr.  Hoppus's  article." 

"  That 's  right ;  then  /  sha'n't  have  to.  You  '11 
tell  me  about  it."  He  uttered  this  without  believ- 
ing that  she  had  meant  or  wished  to  read  the  ar- 
ticle, which  was  entitled  "The  Revision  of  the 
British  Constitution,"  in  spite  of  her  having  en- 
cumbered herself  with  the  stiff,  fresh  magazine. 
He  was  conscious  that  she  was  not  in  want  of 
such  mental  occupation  as  periodical  literature 
could  supply.  They  walked  along  and  then  he 
added,  "  But  is  that  what  we  are  in  for  —  read- 
ing Mr.  Hoppus  ?  Is  that  the  sort  of  thing  that 
constituents  expect  ?  Or  even  worse,  pretending 
to  have  read  him  when  one  has  n't  ?  Oh,  what  a 
tangled  web  we  weave !  " 

"People  are  talking  about  it.  One  has  to 
know.  It 's  the  article  of  the  month." 

Nick  looked  at  his  companion  askance  a  mo- 
ment. "  You  say  things  every  now  and  then  for 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  293 

which  I  could  kill  you.  '  The  article  of  the 
month,'  for  instance  :  I  could  kill  you  for  that." 

"  Well,  kill  me  !  "  Mrs.  Dallow  exclaimed. 

"  Let  me  carry  your  book,"  Nick  rejoined,  irrel- 
evantly. The  hand  in  which  she  held  it  was  on 
the  side  of  her  on  which  he  was  walking,  and  he 
put  out  his  own  hand  to  take  it.  But  for  a  couple 
of  minutes  she  forbore  to  give  it  up,  and  they 
held  it  together,  swinging  it  a  little.  Before  she 
surrendered  it  he  inquired  where  she  was  going. 

"  To  the  island,"  she  answered. 

"  Well,  I  '11  go  with  you  —  and  I  '11  kill  you 
there." 

"The  things  I  say  are  the  right  things,"  said 
Mrs.  Dallow. 

"It's  just  the  right  things  that  are  wrong. 
It's  because  you're  so  political,"  Nick  went  on. 
"  It 's  your  horrible  ambition.  The  woman  who 
has  a  salon  should  have  read  the  article  of  the 
month.  See  how  one  dreadful  thing  leads  to 
another." 

"There  are  some  things  that  lead  to  nothing." 

"No  doubt  —  no  doubt.  And  how  are  you 
going  to  get  over  to  your  island  ? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Is  n't  there  a  boat  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

Nick  had  paused  a  moment,  to  look  round  for 
the  boat,  but  Mrs.  Dallow  walked  on,  without 
turning  her  head.  "  Can  you  row  ?  "  her  com- 
panion asked. 


294  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Don't  you  know  I  can  do  everything  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure.  That 's  why  I  want  to  kill 
you.  There's  the  boat." 

"  Shall  you  drown  me  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Dallow. 

"  Oh,  let  me  perish  with  you  !  "  Nick  answered 
with  a  sigh.  The  boat  had  been  hidden  from 
them  by  the  bole  of  a  great  tree,  which  rose  from 
the  grass  at  the  water's  edge.  It  was  moored  to 
a  small  place  of  embarkation  and  was  large 
enough  to  hold  as  many  persons  as  were  likely 
to  wish  to  visit  at  once  the  little  temple  in  the 
middle  of  the  lake,  which  Nick  liked  because  it 
was  absurd  and  Mrs.  Dallow  had  never  had  a 
particular  esteem  for.  The  lake,  fed  by  a  natural 
spring,  was  a  liberal  sheet  of  water,  measured  by 
the  scale  of  park  scenery ;  and  though  its  prin- 
cipal merit  was  that,  taken  at  a  distance,  it  gave 
a  gleam  of  abstraction  to  the  concrete  verdure, 
doing  the  office  of  an  open  eye  in  a  dull  face,  it 
could  also  be  approached  without  derision  on  a 
sweet  summer  morning,  when  it  made  a  lapping 
sound  and  reflected  candidly  various  things  that 
were  probably  finer  than  itself  —  the  sky,  the 
great  trees,  the  flight  of  birds. 

A  man  of  taste,  a  hundred  years  before,  com- 
ing back  from  Rome,  had  caused  a  small  orna- 
mental structure  to  be  erected,  on  artificial  foun- 
dations, on  its  bosom,  and  had  endeavored  to 
make  this  architectural  pleasantry  as  nearly  as 
possible  a  reminiscence  of  the  small  ruined  ro- 
tunda which  stands  on  the  bank  of  the  Tiber  and 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  295 

is  declared  by  ciceroni  to  have  been  dedicated  to 
Vesta.  It  was  circular,  it  was  roofed  with  old 
tiles,  it  was  surrounded  by  white  columns  and  it 
was  considerably  dilapidated.  George  Dallow 
had  taken  an  interest  in  it  (it  reminded  him  not 
in  the  least  of  Rome,  but  of  other  things  that  he 
liked),  and  had  amused  himself  with  restoring  it. 

"  Give  me  your  hand  ;  sit  there,  and  I  '11  ferry 
you,"  Nick  Dormer  said. 

Mrs.  Dallow  complied,  placing  herself  opposite 
to  him  in  the  boat ;  but  as  he  took  up  the  paddles 
she  declared  that  she  preferred  to  remain  on  the 
water  —  there  was  too  much  malice  prgpense  in 
the  temple.  He  asked  her  what  she  meant  by 
that,  and  she  said  it  was  ridiculous  to  withdraw 
to  an  island  a  few  feet  square  on  purpose  to  med- 
itate. She  had  nothing  to  meditate  about  which 
required  so  much  attitude. 

"On  the  contrary,  it  would  be  just  to  change 
the  pose.  It 's  what  we  have  been  doing  for  a 
week  that 's  attitude  ;  and  to  be  for  half  an  hour 
where  nobody's  looking  and  one  has  n't  to  keep 
it  up  is  just  what  I  wanted  to  put  in  an  idle,  irre- 
sponsible day  for.  I  am  not  keeping  it  up  now 
—  I  suppose  you  've  noticed,"  Nick  went  on,  as 
they  floated  and  he  scarcely  dipped  the  oars. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Mrs.  Dallow, 
leaning  back  in  the  boat. 

Nick  gave  no  further  explanation  than  to  ask 
in  a  minute,  "  Have  you  people  to  dinner  to- 
night  ?" 


296  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  I  believe  there  are  three  or  four,  but  I  '11  put 
them  off  if  you  like." 

"  Must  you  always  live  in  public,  Julia  ? "  Nick 
continued. 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment,  and  he  could  see 
that  she  colored  slightly.  "  We  '11  go  home  — 
I  '11  put  them  off." 

"  Ah  no,  don't  go  home ;  it 's  too  jolly  here. 
Let  them  come  —  let  them  come,  poor  wretches !  " 

"  How  little  you  know  me,  when,  ever  so  many 
times,  I  have  lived  here  for  months  without  a 
creature ! " 

"Except  Mrs.  Gresham,  I  suppose." 

"  I  have  had  to  have  the  house  going,  I  admit." 

"  You  're  perfect,  you  're  admirable,  and  I  don't 
criticise  you." 

"  I  don't  understand  you  !  "  she  tossed  back. 

"  That  only  adds  to  the  generosity  of  what  you 
have  done  for  me,"  Nick  returned,  beginning  to 
pull  faster.  He  bent  over  the  oars  and  sent  the 
boat  forward,  keeping  this  up  for  ten  minutes, 
during  which  they  both  remained  silent.  His 
companion,  in  her  place,  motionless,  reclining 
(the  seat  in  the  stern  was  very  comfortable), 
looked  only  at  the  water,  the  sky,  the  trees. 
At  last  Nick  headed  for  the  little  temple,  saying 
first,  however,  "  Sha'n't  we  visit  the  ruin  ? " 

"  If  you  like.  I  don't  mind  seeing  how  they 
keep  it." 

They  reached  the  white  steps  which  led  up  to 
it.  Nick  held  the  boat,  and  Mrs.  Dallow  got  out. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  297 

He  fastened  the  boat,  and  they  went  up  the  steps 
together,  passing  through  the  open  door. 

"  They  keep  it  very  well,"  Nick  said,  looking 
round.  "It's  a  capital  place  to  give  up  every- 
thing." 

"It  might  do  for  you  to  explain  what  you 
mean,"  said  Julia,  sitting  down. 

"I  mean  to  pretend  for  half  an  hour  that  I 
don't  represent  the  burgesses  of  Harsh.  It's 
charming  —  it 's  very  delicate  work.  Surely  it 
has  been  retouched." 

The  interior  of  the  pavilion,  lighted  by  win- 
dows which  the  circle  of  columns  was  supposed, 
outside  and  at  a  distance,  to  conceal,  had  a 
vaulted  ceiling  and  was  occupied  by  a  few  pieces 
of  last-century  furniture,  spare  and  faded,  of 
which  the  colors  matched  with  the  decoration  of 
the  walls.  These  and  the  ceiling,  tinted  and  not 
exempt  from  indications  of  damp,  were  covered 
with  fine  mouldings  and  medallions.  It  was  a 
very  elegant  little  teahouse. 

Mrs.  Dallow  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  sofa,  rolling 
her  parasol  and  remarking,  "  You  ought  to  read 
Mr.  Hoppus's  article  to  me." 

"  Why,  is  this  your  salon  ?  "  asked  Nick,  smil- 
ing. 

"  Why  are  you  always  talking  of  that  ?  It 's 
an  invention  of  your  own." 

"  But  is  n't  it  the  idea  you  care  most  about  ? " 

Suddenly,  nervously,  Mrs.  Dallow  put  up  her 
parasol  and  sat  under  it,  as  if  she  were  not  quite 


298  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

sensible  of  what  she  was  doing.  "How  much 
you  know  me!  I  don't  care  about  anything  — 
that  you  will  ever  guess." 

Nick  Dormer  wandered  about  the  room,  look- 
ing at  various  things  it  contained  —  the  odd  vol- 
umes on  the  tables,  the  bits  of  quaint  china  on 
the  shelves.  "  They  keep  it  very  well ;  you  've 
got  charming  things." 

"  They  're  supposed  to  come  over  every  day 
and  look  after  them." 

"  They  must  come  over  in  force." 

"  Oh,  no  one  knows." 

"  It 's  spick  and  span.  How  well  you  have 
everything  done  ! " 

"  I  think  you  Ve  some  reason  to  say  so,"  said 
Mrs.  Dallow.  Her  parasol  was  down,  and  she 
was  again  rolling  it  tight. 

"  But  you  're  right  about  my  not  knowing  you. 
Why  were  you  so  ready  to  do  so  much  for  me  ?  " 

He  stopped  in  front  of  her  and  she  looked  up 
at  him.  Her  eyes  rested  on  his  a  minute  ;  then 
she  broke  out,  "  Why  do  you  hate  me  so  ?  " 

"  Was  it  because  you  like  me  personally  ? " 
Nick  asked.  "  You  may  think  that  an  odd,  or 
even  an  odious  question ;  but  is  n't  it  natural,  my 
wanting  to  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  if  you  don't  know ! "  Mrs.  Dallow  ex- 
claimed. 

"  It 's  a  question  of  being  sure." 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  're  not  sure  —  " 

"  Was  it  done  for  me  as  a  friend,  as  a  man  ? "' 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  299 

"  You  're  not  a  man  ;  you  're  a  child,"  said  his 
hostess,  with  a  face  that  was  cold,  though  she 
had  been  smiling  the  moment  before. 

"  After  all,  I  was  a  good  candidate,"  Nick  went 
on. 

"  What  do  I  care  for  candidates  ?  " 

"You're  the  most  delightful  woman,  Julia," 
said  Nick,  sitting  down  beside  her,  "and  I  can't 
imagine  what  you  mean  by  my  hating  you." 

"  If  you  have  n't  discovered  that  I  like  you,  you 
might  as  well." 

"  Might  as  well  discover  it?  " 

Mrs.  Dallow  was  grave  ;  he  had  never  seen  her 
so  pale  and  never  so  beautiful.  She  had  stopped 
rolling  her  parasol  now  ;  her  hands  were  folded 
in  her  lap  and  her  eyes  were  bent  on  them.  Nick 
sat  looking  at  them,  too,  a  trifle  awkwardly. 
"  Might  as  well  have  hated  me,"  said  Mrs.  Dallow. 

"  We  have  got  on  so  beautifully  together,  all 
these  days  :  why  should  n't  we  get  on  as  well  for- 
ever and  ever?"  Mrs.  Dallow  made  no  answer, 
and  suddenly  Nick  said  to  her :  "  Ah,  Julia,  I 
don't  know  what  you  have  done  to  me,  but  you  've 
done  it.  You  've  done  it  by  strange  ways,  but  it 
will  serve.  Yes,  I  hate  you,"  he  added,  in  a  dif- 
ferent tone,  with  his  face  nearer  to  hers. 

"  Dear  Nick  —  dear  Nick  "  —  she  began.  But 
she  stopped,  for  she  suddenly  felt  that  he  was  al- 
together nearer,  nearer  than  he  had  ever  been  to 
her  before,  that  his  arm  was  round  her,  that  he 
was  in  possession  of  her.  She  closed  her  eyes, 


300  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

but  she  heard  him  ask :  "  Why  should  n't  it  be 
forever,  forever  ? "  in  a  voice  that  had,  for  her 
ear,  such  a  vibration  as  no  voice  had  ever  had. 

"You've  done  it  —  you've  done  it,"  Nick  re- 
peated. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  To  stay  with  me,  this  way,  always." 

"  Ah,  not  this  way,"  she  answered,  softly,  but 
as  if  in  pain,  and  making  an  effort,  with  a  certain 
force,  to  detach  herself. 

"This  way,  then — or  this!"  He  took  such 
insistent  advantage  of  her  that  he  had  quickly 
kissed  her.  She  rose  as  quickly,  but  he  held  her 
yet,  and  while  he  did  so  he  said  to  her  in  the 
same  tender  tone,  "  If  you  '11  marry  me,  why 
should  n't  it  be  so  simple,  so  good  ?  "  He  drew 
her  closer  again,  too  close  for  her  to  answer. 
But  her  struggle  ceased  and  she  rested  upon  him 
for  a  minute  ;  she  buried  her  face  on  his  breast 

"  You  're  hard,  and  it 's  cruel !  "  she  then  ex- 
claimed, breaking  away. 

"  Hard  —  cruel  ?  " 

"You  do  it  with  so  little!"  And  with  this, 
unexpectedly  to  Nick,  Mrs.  Dallow  burst  straight 
into  tears.  Before  he  could  stop  her  she  was  at 
the  door  of  the  pavilion,  as  if  she  wished  to  quit 
it  immediately.  There,  however,  he  stopped  her, 
bending  over  her  while  she  sobbed,  unspeakably 
gentle  with  her. 

"  So  little  ?  It 's  with  everything  —  with  every- 
thing I  have." 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  30 1 

"  I  have  done  it,  you  say  ?  What  do  you  ac- 
cuse me  of  doing?"  Her  tears  were  already 
over. 

"  Of  making  me  yours ;  of  being  so  precious, 
Julia,  so  exactly  what  a  man  wants,  as  it  seems 
to  me.  I  did  n't  know  you  could,"  he  went  on, 
smiling  down  at  her.  "  I  did  n't  —  no,  I  did  n't." 

"  It 's  what  I  say  —  that  you  've  always  hated 
me." 

"  I  '11  make  it  up  to  you." 

She  leaned  on  the  doorway  with  her  head 
against  the  lintel.  "  You  don't  even  deny  it." 

"  Contradict  you  now  f  I  '11  admit  it,  though 
it's  rubbish,  on  purpose  to  live  it  down." 

"  It  does  n't  matter,"  she  said,  slowly  ;  "  for 
however  much  you  might  have  liked  me,  you 
would  never  have  done  so  half  as  much  as  I  have 
cared  for  you." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  poor  !  "  Nick  murmured,  cheer- 
fully. 

She  looked  at  him,  smiling,  and  slowly  shook 
her  head.  Then  she  declared,  "You  never 
can." 

"  I  like  that !  Have  n't  I  asked  you  to  marry 
me  ?  When  did  you  ever  ask  me  ?  " 

"  Every  day  of  my  life  !  As  I  say,  it 's  hard  — 
for  a  proud  woman." 

"  Yes,  you're  too  proud  even  to  answer  me." 

"We  must  think  of  it,  we  must  talk  of  it." 

"  Think  of  it  ?  I  've  thought  of  it,  ever  so 
much." 


3O2  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

11 1  mean  together.  There  are  things  to  be 
said." 

"The  principal  thing  is  to  give  me  your 
word." 

Mrs.  Dallow  looked  at  him  in  silence  ;  then  she 
exclaimed,  "  I  wish  I  did  n't  adore  you  !  "  She 
went  straight  down  the  steps. 

"  You  don't,  if  you  leave  me  now.  Why  do 
you  go?  It's  so  charming  here,  and  we  are  so 
delightfully  alone." 

"  Detach  the  boat ;  we  '11  go  on  the  water,"  said 
Mrs.  Dallow. 

Nick  was  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  looking 
down  at  her.  "  Ah,  stay  a  little  —  do  stay  !  "  he 
pleaded. 

"  I  '11  get  in  myself,  I  '11  put  off,"  she  answered. 

At  this  Nick  came  down,  and  he  bent  a  little 
to  undo  the  rope.  He  was  close  to  her,  and  as 
he  raised  his  head  he  felt  it  caught ;  she  had 
seized  it  in  her  hands,  and  she  pressed  her  lips  to 
the  first  place  they  encountered.  The  next  in- 
stant she  was  in  the  boat. 

This  time  he  dipped  the  oars  very  slowly  in- 
deed ;  and  while,  for  a  period  that  was  longer 
than  it  seemed  to  them,  they  floated  vaguely, 
they  mainly  sat  and  glowed  at  each  other,  as  if 
everything  had  been  settled.  There  were  reasons 
enough  why  Nick  should  be  happy  ;  but  it  is  a 
singular  fact  that  the  leading  one  was  the  sense 
of  having  escaped  from  a  great  mistake.  The 
final  result  of  his  mother's  appeal  to  him  the  day 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  303 

before  had  been  the  idea  that  he  must  act  with 
unimpeachable  honor.  He  was  capable  of  taking 
it  as  an  assurance  that  Julia  had  placed  him  un- 
der an  obligation  which  a  gentleman  could  regard 
only  in  one  way.  If  she  had  understood  it  so, 
putting  the  vision,  or  at  any  rate  the  appreciation, 
of  a  closer  tie  into  everything  she  had  done  for 
him,  the  case  was  conspicuously  simple  and  his 
course  unmistakably  plain.  That  is  why  he  had 
been  gay  when  he  came  out  of  the  house  to  look 
for  her  :  he  could  be  gay  when  his  course  was 
plain.  He  could  be  all  the  gayer,  naturally,  I 
must  add,  that  in  turning  things  over,  as  he  had 
done  half  the  night,  what  he  had  turned  up  often- 
est  was  the  recognition  that  Julia  now  had  a  new 
personal  power  over  him.  It  was  not  for  nothing 
that  she  had  thrown  herself  personally  into  his 
life.  She  had  by  her  act  made  him  live  twice  as 
much,  and  such  a  service,  if  a  man  had  accepted 
and  deeply  tasted  it,  was  certainly  a  thing  to  put 
him  on  his  honor.  Nick  gladly  recognized  that 
there  was  nothing  he  could  do  in  preference  that 
would  not  be  spoiled  for  him  by  any  deflection 
from  that  point.  His  mother  had  made  him  un- 
comfortable by  intimating  to  him  that  Julia  was 
in  love  with  him  (he  did  n't  like,  in  general,  to  be 
told  such  things)  ;  but  the  responsibility  seemed 
easier  to  carry,  and  he  was  less  shy  about  it,  when 
once  he  was  away  from  other  eyes,  with  only 
Julia's  own  to  express  that  truth  and  with  indif- 
ferent nature  all  around.  Besides,  what  dis- 


304  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

covery  had  he  made  this  morning  but  that  he 
also  was  in  love  ? 

"  You  must  be  a  very  great  man,"  she  said  to 
him,  in  the  middle  of  the  lake.  "  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean,  about  my  salon ;  but  I  am  am- 
bitious." 

"  We  must  look  at  life  in  a  large,  bold  way," 
Nick  replied,  resting  his  oars. 

"  That 's  what  I  mean.  If  I  did  n't  think  you 
could  I  would  n't  look  at  you." 

"  I  could  what  ?  " 

"Do  everything  you  ought  —  everything  I  im- 
agine, I  dream  of.  You  are  clever :  you  can 
never  make  me  believe  the  contrary,  after  your 
speech  on  Tuesday.  Don't  speak  to  me  !  I  've 
seen,  I  've  heard,  and  I  know  what 's  in  you.  I 
shall  hold  you  to  it.  You  are  everything  that  you 
pretend  not  to  be." 

Nick  sat  looking  at  the  water  while  she  talked. 
"  Will  it  always  be  so  amusing  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Will  what  always  be  ? " 

"  Why,  my  career." 

"  Sha'n't  I  make  it  so  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  yours ;  it  won't  be  mine,"  said 
Nick. 

"  Ah,  don't  say  that :  don't  make  me  out  that 
sort  of  woman  !  If  they  should  say  it 's  me,  I  'd 
drown  myself." 

"  If  they  should  say  what 's  you  ? " 

"Why,  your  getting  on.  If  they  should  say 
I  push  you,  that  I  do  things  for  you." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  305 

"  Well,  won't  you  do  them  ?  It 's  just  what  I 
count  on." 

"  Don't  be  dreadful,"  said  Mrs.  Dallow.  "  It 
i  would  be  loathsome  if  I  were  said  to  be  cleverer 
than  you.  That 's  not  the  sort  of  man  I  want  to 
marry." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  make  you  work,  my  dear !  " 

"  Ah,  that ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dallow,  in  a  tone 
that  might  come  back  to  a  man  in  after  years. 

"You  will  do  the  great  thing,  you  will  make 
my  life  delightful,"  Nick  declared,  as  if  he  fully 
perceived  the  sweetness  of  it.  "  I  dare  say  that 
will  keep  me  in  heart." 

"  In  heart  ?  Why  should  n't  you  be  in  heart  ?  " 
Julia's  eyes,  lingering  on  him,  searching  him, 
seemed  to  question  him  still  more  than  her  lips. 

"  Oh,  it  will  be  all  right !  "  cried  Nick. 

"  You  '11  like  success,  as  well  as  any  one  else. 
Don't  tell  me  —  you  're  not  so  ethereal !  " 

"  Yes,  I  shall  like  success." 

"  So  shall  I !  And  of  course  I  am  glad  that 
you'll  be  able  to  do  things,"  Mrs.  Dallow  went 
on.  "  I  'm  glad  you  '11  have  things.  I  'm  glad 
I  'm  not  poor." 

"Ah,  don't  speak  of  that,"  Nick  murmured. 
"  Only  be  nice  to  my  mother ;  we  shall  make  her 
supremely  happy." 

"  I  'm  glad  I  like  your  people,"  Mrs.  Dallow 
dropped.  "  Leave  them  to  me  ! " 

"  You  're  generous  —  you  're  noble,"  stammered 
Nick. 


306  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Your  mother  must  live  at  Broadwood  ;  she 
must  have  it  for  life.  It 's  not  at  all  bad." 

"Ah,  Julia,"  her  companion  replied,  "it 's  well 
I  love  you  !  " 

"Why  shouldn't  you?"  laughed  Julia;  and 
after  this  there  was  nothing  said  between  them 
till  the  boat  touched  the  shore.  When  she  had 
got  out  Mrs.  Dallow  remarked  that  it  was  time 
for  luncheon ;  but  they  took  no  action  in  conse- 
quence, strolling  in  a  direction  which  was  not 
that  of  the  house.  There  was  a  vista  that  drew 
them  on,  a  grassy  path  skirting  the  foundations 
of  scattered  beeches  and  leading  to  a  stile  from 
which  the  charmed  wanderer  might  drop  into  an- 
other division  of  Mrs.  Dallovv's  property.  This 
lady  said  something  about  their  going  as  far  as 
the  stile ;  then,  the  next  instant,  she  exclaimed, 
"  How  stupid  of  you  —  you  Ve  forgotten  Mr. 
Hoppus  ! " 

"  We  left  him  in  the  temple  of  Vesta.  Darling, 
I  had  other  things  to  think  of  there." 

"  I  '11  send  for  him,"  said  Mrs.  Dallow. 

"  Lord,  can  you  think  of  him  now  ? "  Nick 
asked. 

"  Of  course  I  can  — more  than  ever." 

"  Shall  we  go  back  for  him  ?  "  Nick  inquired, 
pausing. 

Mrs.  Dallow  made  no  answer  ;  she  continued 
to  walk,  saying  they  would  go  as  far  as  the  stile. 
"  Of  course  I  know  you  're  fearfully  vague,"  she 
presently  resumed 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  307 

"  I  was  n't  vague  at  all.  But  you  were  in  such 
a  hurry  to  get  away." 

"  It  does  n't  signify.  I  have  another  one  at 
home." 

"  Another  summer-house  ? "  suggested  Nick. 

"  A  copy  of  Mr.  Hoppus." 

"  Mercy,  how  you  go  in  for  him  !  Fancy  hav- 
ing two ! " 

"  He  sent  me  the  number  of  the  magazine ; 
and  the  other  is  the  one  that  comes  every 
month." 

"  Every  month  —  I  see,"  said  Nick,  in  a  man- 
ner justifying  considerably  Mrs.  Dallow's  charge 
of  vagueness.  They  had  reached  the  stile  and  he 
leaned  over  it,  looking  at  a  great  mild  meadow 
and  at  the  browsing  beasts  in  the  distance. 

"Did  you  suppose  they  come  every  day?" 
asked  Mrs.  Dallow. 

"  Dear,  no,  thank  God  !  "  They  remained  there 
a  little  ;  he  continued  to  look  at  the  animals,  and 
before  long  he  added :  "  Delightful  English  pas- 
toral scene.  Why  do  they  say  it  won't  paint  ? " 

"  Who  says  it  won't  ?  " 

"I  don't  know — some  of  them.  It  will  in 
France  ;  but  somehow  it  won't  here." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  Mrs.  Dallow 
demanded. 

Nick  appeared  unable  to  satisfy  her  on  this 
point ;  at  any  rate,  instead  of  answering  her  di- 
rectly he  said  :  "  Is  Broadwood  very  charm- 
ing?" 


308  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Have  you  never  been  there  ?  It  shows  how 
you've  treated  me.  We  used  to  go  there  in 
August.  George  had  ideas  about  it,"  added  Mrs. 
Dallow.  She  had  never  affected  not  to  speak  of 
her  late  husband,  especially  with  Nick,  whose 
kinsman,  in  a  manner,  he  had  been  and  who  had 
liked  him  better  than  some  others  did. 

"  George  had  ideas  about  a  great  many  things." 

Julia  Dallow  appeared  to  be  conscious  that  it 
would  be  rather  odd,  on  such  an  occasion,  to  take 
this  up.  It  was  even  odd  in  Nick  to  have  said  it. 
"Broadwood  is  just  right,"  she  rejoined  at  last. 
"  It 's  neither  too  small  nor  too  big,  and  it  takes 
care  of  itself.  There  's  nothing  to  be  done  :  you 
can't  spend  a  penny." 

"  And  don't  you  want  to  use  it  ? " 

" We  can  go  and  stay  with  them"  said  Mrs. 
Dallow. 

"  They  '11  think  I  bring  them  an  angel."  And 
Nick  covered  her  hand,  which  was  resting  on  the 
stile,  with  his  own  large  one. 

"  As  they  regard  you  yourself  as  an  angel  they 
will  take  it  as  natural  of  you  to  associate  with 
your  kind." 

"  Oh,  my  kind  !  "  murmured  Nick,  looking  at 
the  cows. 

Mrs.  Dallow  turned  away  from  him,  as  if  she 
were  starting  homeward,  and  he  began  to  retrace 
his  steps  with  her.  Suddenly  she  said  :  "  What 
did  you  mean,  that  night  in  Paris  ?  " 

"  That  night  ?  " 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  309 

"  When  you  came  to  the  hotel  with  me,  after 
we  had  all  dined  at  that  place  with  Peter." 

"  What  did  I  mean  ?  " 

"  About  your  caring  so  much  for  the  fine  arts. 
You  seemed  to  want  to  frighten  me." 

"  Why  should  you  have  been  frightened  ?  I 
can't  imagine  what  I  had  in  my  head  :  not 
now." 

"  You  are  vague,"  said  Julia,  with  a  little  flush. 

"  Not  about  the  great  thing." 

"  The  great  thing  ?  " 

"That  I  owe  you  everything  an  honest  man 
has  to  offer.  How  can  I  care  about  the  fine  arts 
now  ? " 

Mrs.  Dallow  stopped,  looking  at  him.  "  Is  it 
because  you  think  you  owe  it  —  "  and  she  paused, 
still  with  the  heightened  color  in  her  cheek ;  then 
she  went  on  — "  that  you  have  spoken  to  me  as 
you  did  there  ? "  She  tossed  her  head  toward 
the  lake. 

"  I  think  I  spoke  to  you  because  I  could  n't 
help  it." 

"  You  are  vague  !  "  And  Mrs.  Dallow  walked 
on  again. 

"  You  affect  me  differently  from  any  other  wo- 
man." 

"  Oh,  other  women  !  Why  should  n't  you  care 
about  the  fine  arts  now  ?  "  she  added. 

"There  will  be  no  time.  All  my  days  and 
my  years  will  be  none  too  much  to  do  what  you 
expect  of  me." 


310  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  I  don't  expect  you  to  give  up  anything.  I 
only  expect  you  to  do  more." 

"  To  do  more  I  must  do  less.  I  have  no  tal- 
ent." 

"  No  talent  ?  " 

"  I  mean  for  painting." 

Mrs.  Dallow  stopped  again.  "  That 's  odious  ! 
You  have  —  you  must." 

Nick  burst  out  laughing.  "  You  're  altogether 
delightful.  But  how  little  you  know  about  it  — 
about  the  honorable  practice  of  any  art !  " 

"  What  do  you  call  practice  ?  You  '11  have  all 
our  things  —  you'll  live  in  the  midst  of  them." 

"Certainly  I  shall  enjoy  looking  at  them,  being 
so  near  them." 

"  Don't  say  I  've  taken  you  away  then." 

"  Taken  me  away  ?  " 

"From  the  love  of  art.  I  like  them  myself 
now,  poor  George's  treasures.  I  did  n't,  of  old, 
so  much,  because  it  seemed  to  me  he  made  too 
much  of  them  —  he  was  always  talking." 

"  Well,  I  won't  talk,"  said  Nick. 

"  You  may  do  as  you  like  —  they  're  yours." 

"  Give  them  to  the  nation,"  Nick  went  on. 

"  I  like  that !  When  we  have  done  with 
them." 

"We  shall  have  done  with  them  when  your 
Vandykes  and  Moronis  have  cured  me  of  the  de- 
lusion that  I  may  be  of  their  family.  Surely  that 
won't  take  long." 

"  You  shall  paint  me"  said  Julia. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  31! 

"  Never,  never,  never  !  "  Nick  uttered  these 
words  in  a  tone  that  made  his  companion  stare  ; 
and  he  appeared  slightly  embarrassed  at  this  re- 
sult of  his  emphasis.  To  relieve  himself  he  said, 
as  they  had  come  back  to  the  place  beside  the 
lake  where  the  boat  was  moored,  "  Sha'n't  we 
really  go  and  fetch  Mr.  Hoppus  ?  " 

She  hesitated.    "  You  may  go  ;  I  won't,  please." 

"  That 's  not  what  I  want." 

"  Oblige  me  by  going.  I  '11  wait  here."  With 
which  Mrs.  Dallow  sat  down  on  the  bench  at- 
tached to  the  little  landing. 

Nick,  at  this,  got  into  the  boat  and  put  off ; 
he  smiled  at  her  as  she  sat  there  watching  him. 
He  made  his  short  journey,  disembarked  and 
went  into  the  pavilion  ;  but  when  he  came  out 
with  the  object  of  his  errand  he  saw  that  Mrs. 
Dallow  had  quitted  her  station  —  she  had  re- 
turned to  the  house  without  him.  He  rowed 
back  quickly,  sprang  ashore  and  followed  her 
with  long  steps.  Apparently  she  had  gone  fast ; 
she  had  almost  reached  the  door  when  he  over- 
took her. 

"  Why  did  you  basely  desert  me  ? "  he  asked, 
stopping  her  there. 

"  I  don't  know.     Because  I  'm  so  happy." 

"May  I  tell  mother?" 

"You  may  tell  her  she  shall  have  Broadwood." 


XVI. 

NICK  lost  no  time  in  going  down  to  see  Mr. 
Carteret,  to  whom  he  had  written  immediately 
after  the  election  and  who  had  answered  him  in 
twelve  revised  pages  of  historical  parallel.  He 
used  often  to  envy  Mr.  Carteret's  leisure,  a  sense 
of  which  came  to  him  now  afresh,  in  the  summer 
evening,  as  he  walked  up  the  hill  toward  the 
quiet  house  where  enjoyment,  for  him,  had  ever 
been  mingled  with  a  vague  oppression.  He  was 
a  little  boy  again,  under  Mr.  Carteret's  roof  —  a 
little  boy  on  whom  it  had  been  duly  impressed 
that  in  the  wide,  plain,  peaceful  rooms  he  was 
not  to  "  touch."  When  he  paid  a  visit  to  his  fa- 
ther's old  friend  there  were  in  fact  many  things 
—  many  topics  —  from  which  he  instinctively 
kept  his  hands.  Even  Mr.  Chayter,  the  imme- 
morial blank  butler,  who  was  so  like  his  master 
that  he  might  have  been  a  twin  brother,  helped 
to  remind  him  that  he  must  be  good.  Mr.  Car- 
teret seemed  to  Nick  a  very  grave  person,  but 
he  had  the  sense  that  Chayter  thought  him 
rather  frivolous. 

Our  young  man  always  came  on  foot  from  the 
station,  leaving  his  portmanteau  to  be  carried : 
the  direct  way  was  steep  and  he  liked  the  slow 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  313 

approach,  which  gave  him  a  chance  to  look  about 
the  place  and  smell  the  new-mown  hay.  At  this 
season  the  air  was  full  of  it  —  the  fields  were  so 
near  that  it  was  in  the  small,  empty  streets.  Nick 
would  never  have  thought  of  rattling  up  to  Mr. 
Carteret's  door.  It  had  an  old  brass  plate,  with 
his  name,  as  if  he  had  been  the  principal  surgeon. 
The  house  was  in  the  high  part,  and  the  neat 
roofs  of  other  houses,  lower  down  the  hill,  made 
an  immediate  prospect  for  it,  scarcely  counting, 
however,  for  the  green  country  was  just  below 
these,  familiar  and  interpenetrating,  in  the  shape 
of  small  but  thick-tufted  gardens.  There  was 
something  growing  in  all  the  intervals,  and  the 
only  disorder  of  the  place  was  that  there  were 
sometimes  oats  on  the  pavements.  A  crooked 
lane,  very  clean,  with  cobblestones,  opened  oppo- 
site to  Mr.  Carteret's  house  and  wandered  towards 
the  old  abbey ;  for  the  abbey  was  the  secondary 
fact  of  Beauclere,  after  Mr.  Carteret.  Mr.  Car- 
teret  sometimes  went  away  and  the  abbey  never 
did  ;  yet  somehow  it  was  most  of  the  essence  of 
the  place  that  it  possessed  the  proprietor  of  the 
squarest  of  the  square  red  houses,  with  the  finest 
of  the  arched  hall-windows,  in  three  divisions, 
over  the  widest  of  the  last-century  doorways. 
You  saw  the  great  abbey  from  the  doorstep,  be- 
yond the  gardens  of  course,  and  in  the  stillness 
you  could  hear  the  flutter  of  the  birds  that  circled 
round  its  huge,  short  towers.  The  towers  had 
never  been  finished,  save  as  time  finishes  things, 


314  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

by  perpetuating  their  incompleteness.  There  is 
something  right  in  old  monuments  that  have  been 
wrong  for  centuries :  some  such  moral  as  that 
was  usually  in  Nick's  mind,  as  an  emanation  of 
Beauclere,  when  he  looked  at  the  magnificent 
line  of  the  roof  riding  the  sky  and  unsurpassed 
for  length. 

When  the  door  with  the  brass  plate  was  opened 
and  Mr.  Chayter  appeared  in  the  middle  distance 
(he  always  advanced  just  to  the  same  spot,  like  a 
prime  minister  receiving  an  ambassador),  Nick 
saw  anew  that  he  would  be  wonderfully  like  Mr. 
Carteret  if  he  had  had  an  expression.  He  did 
not  permit  himself  this  freedom  ;  never  giving  a 
sign  of  recognition,  often  as  the  young  man  had 
been  at  the  house.  He  was  most  attentive  to 
the  visitor's  wants,  but  apparently  feared  that  if 
he  allowed  a  familiarity  it  might  go  too  far. 
There  was  always  the  same  question  to  be  asked 
—  had  Mr.  Carteret  finished  his  nap  ?  He  usu- 
ally had  not  finished  it,  and  this  left  Nick  what 
he  liked  —  time  to  smoke  a  cigarette  in  the  gar- 
den, or  even,  before  dinner,  to  take  a  turn  about 
the  place.  He  observed  now,  every  time  he 
came,  that  Mr.  Carteret's  nap  lasted  a  little 
longer.  There  was,  each  year,  a  little  more 
strength  to  be  gathered  for  the  ceremony  of  din- 
ner :  this  was  the  principal  symptom  —  almost 
the  only  one  —  that  the  clear-cheeked  old  gentle- 
man gave  of  not  being  so  fresh  as  of  yore.  He 
was  still  wonderful  for  his  age.  To-day  he  was 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE,  315 

particularly  careful:  Chayter  went  so  far  as  to 
mention  to  Nick  that  four  gentlemen  were  ex- 
pected to  dinner  —  an  effusiveness  perhaps  partly 
explained  by  the  circumstance  that  Lord  Bottom- 
ley  was  one  of  them. 

The  prospect  of  Lord  Bottomley  was,  some- 
how, not  stirring  ;  it  only  made  the  young  man 
say  to  himself  with  a  quick,  thin  sigh,  "  This  time 
I  ant  in  for  it !  "  And  he  immediately  had  the 
unpolitical  sense  again  that  there  was  nothing  so 
pleasant  as  the  way  the  quiet  bachelor  house  had 
its  best  rooms  on  the  big  garden,  which  seemed 
to  advance  into  them  through  their  wide  windows 
and  ruralize  their  dullness. 

"  I  expect  it  will  be  a  lateish  eight,  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Chayter,  superintending,  in  the  library,  the 
production  of  tea  on  a  large  scale.  Everything 
at  Mr.  Carteret's  appeared  to  Nick  to  be  on  a 
larger  scale  than  anywhere  else  —  the  tea-cups, 
the  knives  and  forks,  the  door-handles,  the  chair- 
backs,  the  legs  of  mutton,  the  candles  and  the 
lumps  of  coal :  they  represented,  and  apparently 
exhausted,  the  master's  sense  of  pleasing  effect, 
for  the  house  was  not  otherwise  decorated.  Nick 
thought  it  really  hideous,  but  he  was  capable  at 
the  same  time  of  extracting  a  degree  of  amuse- 
ment from  anything  that  was  strongly  character- 
istic, and  Mr.  Carteret's  interior  expressed  a 
whole  view  of  life.  Our  young  man  was  gener- 
ous enough  to  find  a  hundred  instructive  intima- 
tions in  it  even  at  the  time  it  came  over  him  (as 


316  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

it  always  did  at  Beauclere)  that  this  was  the  view 
he  himself  was  expected  to  take.  Nowhere  were 
the  boiled  eggs,  at  breakfast,  so  big  or  in  such 
big  receptacles  ;  his  own  shoes,  arranged  in  his 
room,  looked  to  him  vaster  there  than  at  home. 
He  went  out  into  the  garden  and  remembered 
what  enormous  strawberries  they  should  have  for 
dinner.  In  the  house  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
Landseer,  of  oilcloth,  of  woodwork  painted  and 
"  grained." 

Finding  that  he  should  have  time  before  the 
evening  meal,  or  before  Mr.  Carteret  would  be 
able  to  see  him,  he  quitted  the  house  and  took  a 
stroll  toward  the  abbey.  It  covered  acres  of 
ground,  on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  there  were 
aspects  in  which  its  vast  bulk  reminded  him  of 
the  ark  left  high  and  dry  upon  Ararat.  At  least 
it  was  the  image  of  a  great  wreck,  of  the  inde- 
structible vessel  of  a  faith,  washed  up  there  by  a 
storm  centuries  before.  The  injury  of  time 
added  to  this  appearance  —  the  infirmities  around 
which,  as  he  knew,  the  battle  of  restoration  had 
begun  to  be  fought.  The  cry  had  been  raised 
to  save  the  splendid  pile,  and  the  counter-cry  by 
the  purists,  the  sentimentalists,  whatever  they 
were,  to  save  it  from  being  saved.  They  were 
all  exchanging  compliments  in  the  morning  pa- 
pers. 

Nick  sauntered  round  the  church  —  it  took  a 
good  while ;  he  leaned  against  low  things  and 
looked  up  at  it  while  he  smoked  another  cigarette. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  317 

It  struck  him  as  a  great  pity  it  should  be  touched  : 
so  much  of  the  past  was  buried  there  that  it  was 
like  desecrating,  like  digging  up  a  grave.  And 
the  years  seemed  to  be  letting  it  down  so  gently : 
why  jostle  the  elbow  of  slow-fingering  time  ?  The 
fading  afternoon  was  exquisitely  pure ;  the  place 
was  empty  ;  he  heard  nothing  but  the  cries  of 
several  children,  which  sounded  sweet,  who  were 
playing  on  the  flatness  of  the  very  old  tombs.  He 
knew  that  this  would  inevitably  be  one  of  the 
topics  at  dinner,  the  restoration  of  the  abbey ;  it 
would  give  rise  to  a  considerable  deal  of  orderly 
debate.  Lord  Bottomley,  oddly  enough,  would 
probably  oppose  the  expensive  project,  but  on 
grounds  that  would  be  characteristic  of  him  even 
if  the  attitude  were  not.  Nick's  nerves,  on  this 
spot,  always  knew  what  it  was  to  be  soothed ;  but 
he  shifted  his  position  with  a  slight  impatience 
as  the  vision  came  over  him  of  Lord  Bottomley 's 
treating  a  question  of  aesthetics.  It  was  enough 
to  make  one  want  to  take  the  other  side,  the  idea 
of  having  the  same  taste  as  his  lordship:  one 
would  have  it  for  such  different  reasons. 

Dear  Mr.  Carteret  would  be  deliberate  and  fair 
all  round,  and  would,  like  his  noble  friend,  exhibit 
much  more  architectural  knowledge  than  he,  Nick, 
possessed :  which  would  not  make  it  a  whit  less 
droll  to  our  young  man  that  an  artistic  idea,  so 
little  really  assimilated,  should  be  broached  at  that 
table  and  in  that  air.  It  would  remain  so  outside 
of  their  minds,  and  their  minds  would  remain  so 


318  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

outside  of  it.  It  would  be  dropped  at  last,  how- 
ever, after  half  an  hour's  gentle  worrying,  and  the 
conversation  would  incline  itself  to  public  affairs. 
Mr.  Carteret  would  find  his  natural  level  —  the 
production  of  anecdote  in  regard  to  the  formation 
of  early  ministries.  He  knew  more  than  any  one 
else  about  the  personages  of  whom  certain  cabi- 
nets would  have  consisted  if  they  had  not  con- 
sisted of  others.  His  favorite  exercise  was  to 
illustrate  how  different  everything  might  have 
been  from  what  it  was,  and  how  the  reason  of 
the  difference  had  always  been  somebody's  inabil- 
ity to  "  see  his  way  "  to  accept  the  view  of  some- 
body else  — a  view  usually,  at  the  time,  discussed, 
in  strict  confidence,  with  Mr.  Carteret,  who  sur- 
rounded his  actual  violation  of  that  confidence, 
thirty  years  later,  with  many  precautions  against 
scandal.  In  this  retrospective  vein,  at  the  head 
of  his  table,  the  old  gentleman  always  enjoyed 
an  audience,  or  at  any  rate  commanded  a  silence, 
often  profound.  Every  one  left  it  to  some  one 
else  to  ask  another  question ;  and  when  by 
chance  some  one  else  did  so  every  one  was  struck 
with  admiration  at  any  one's  being  able  to  say 
anything.  Nick  knew  the  moment  when  he  him- 
self would  take  a  glass  of  a  particular  port  and, 
surreptitiously  looking  at  his  watch,  perceive  it 
was  ten  o'clock.  It  might  as  well  be  1830. 

All  this  would  be  a  part  of  the  suggestion  of 
leisure  that  invariably  descended  upon  him  at 
Beauclere  —  the  image  of  a  sloping  shore  where 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  319 

the  tide  of  time  broke  with  a  ripple  too  faint  to 
be  a  warning.  But  there  was  another  admoni- 
tion that  was  almost  equally  sure  to  descend  upon 
his  spirit  in  a  summer  hour,  in  a  stroll  about  the 
grand  abbey ;  to  sink  into  it  as  the  light  lingered 
on  the  rough  red  walls  and  the  local  accent  of  the 
children  sounded  soft  in  the  churchyard.  It  was 
simply  the  sense  of  England  —  a  sort  of  appre- 
hended revelation  of  his  country.  The  dim  an- 
nals of  the  place  appeared  to  be  in  the  air  (foun- 
dations bafflingly  early,  a  great  monastic  life, 
wars  of  the  Roses,  with  battles  and  blood  in  the 
streets,  and  then  the  long  quietude  of  the  respec- 
table centuries,  all  corn-fields  and  magistrates 
and  vicars),  and  these  things  were  connected  with 
an  emotion  that  arose  from  the  green  country, 
the  rich  land  so  infinitely  lived  in,  and  laid  on 
him  a  hand  that  was  too  ghostly  to  press  and  yet, 
somehow,  too  urgent  to  be  light.  It  produced  a 
throb  that  he  could  not  have  spoken  of,  it  was  so 
deep,  and  that  was  half  imagination  and  half  re- 
sponsibility. These  impressions  melted  together 
and  made  a  general  appeal,  of  which,  with  his  new 
honors  as  a  legislator,  he  was  the  sentient  sub- 
ject. If  he  had  a  love  for  this  particular  scene 
of  life,  might  it  not  have  a  love  for  him  and  ex- 
pect something  of  him  ?  What  fate  could  be  so 
high  as  to  grow  old  in  a  national  affection  ?  What 
a  grand  kind  of  reciprocity,  making  mere  sore- 
ness of  all  the  balms  of  indifference  ! 

The  great  church  was  still  open,  and  he  turned 


32O  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

into  it  and  wandered  a  little  in  the  twilight,  which 
had  gathered  earlier  there.  The  whole  structure, 
with  its  immensity  of  height  and  distance,  seemed 
to  rest  on  tremendous  facts  —  facts  of  achieve- 
ment and  endurance  —  and  the  huge  Norman 
pillars  to  loom  through  the  dimness  like  the 
ghosts  of  heroes.  Nick  was  more  struck  with 
its  human  than  with  its  divine  significance,  and 
he  felt  the  oppression  of  his  conscience  as  he 
walked  slowly  about.  It  was  in  his  mind  that 
nothing  in  life  was  really  clear,  all  things  were 
mingled  and  charged,  and  that  patriotism  might 
be  an  uplifting  passion  even  if  it  had  to  allow  for 
Lord  Bottomley  and  for  Mr.  Carteret's  blindness 
on  certain  sides.  Presently  he  perceived  it  was 
nearly  half  past  seven,  and  as  he  went  back  to 
his  old  friend's  he  could  not  have  told  you  whether 
he  was  in  a  state  of  gladness  or  of  gloom. 

"  Mr.  Carteret  will  be  in  the  drawing-room  at  a 
quarter  to  eight,  sir,"  Chayter  said ;  and  Nick,  as 
he  went  to  his  chamber,  asked  himself  what  was 
the  use  of  being  a  member  of  Parliament  if  one 
was  still  sensitive  to  an  intimation  on  the  part  of 
such  a  functionary  that  one  ought  already  to  have 
begun  to  dress.  Chayter's  words  meant  that  Mr. 
Carteret  would  expect  to  have  a  little  comfortable 
conversation  with  him  before  dinner.  Nick's 
usual  rapidity  in  dressing  was,  however,  quite 
adequate  to  the  occasion,  and  his  host  had  not 
appeared  when  he  went  down.  There  were  flow- 
ers in  the  unfeminine  saloon,  which  contained 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE,  321 

several  paintings,  in  addition  to  the  engravings 
of  pictures  of  animals  ;  but  nothing  could  pre- 
vent its  reminding  Nick  of  a  comfortable  com- 
mittee-room. 

Mr.  Carteret  presently  came  in,  with  his  gold- 
headed  stick,  a  laugh  like  a  series  of  little  warn- 
ing coughs  and  the  air  of  embarrassment  that 
our  young  man  always  perceived  in  him  at  first. 
He  was  nearly  eighty,  but  he  was  still  shy  —  he 
laughed  a  great  deal,  faintly  and  vaguely,  at  no- 
thing, as  if  to  make  up  for  the  seriousness  with 
which  he  took  some  jokes.  He  always  began  by 
looking  away  from  his  interlocutor,  and  it  was 
only  little  by  little  that  his  eyes  came  round  ; 
after  which  their  limpid  and  benevolent  blue 
made  you  wonder  why  they  should  ever  be  cir- 
cumspect. He  was  clean  shaven  and  had  a  long 
upper  lip.  When  he  had  seated  himself  he  talked 
of  "  majorities,"  and  showed  a  disposition  to  con- 
verse on  the  general  subject  of  the  fluctuation  of 
Liberal  gains.  He  had  an  extraordinary  memory 
for  facts  of  this  sort,  and  could  mention  the  fig- 
ures relating  to  elections  in  innumerable  places 
in  particular  years.  To  many  of  these  facts  he 
attached  great  importance,  in  his  simple,  kindly, 
presupposing  way  ;  returning  five  minutes  later 
and  correcting  himself  if  he  had  said  that  some 
one,  in  1857,  had  had  6014  instead  of  6004. 

Nick  always  felt  a  great  hypocrite  as  he  lis- 
tened to  him,  in  spite  of  the  old  man's  courtesy 
—  a  thing  so  charming  in  itself  that  it  would  have 


322  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

been  grossness  to  speak  of  him  as  a  bore.  The 
difficulty  was  that  he  took  for  granted  all  kinds 
of  positive  assent,  and  Nick,  in  his  company, 
found  himself  immersed  in  an  atmosphere  of 
tacit  pledges  which  constituted  the  very  medium 
of  intercourse  and  yet  made  him  draw  his  breath 
a  little  in  pain  when,  for  a  moment,  he  measured 
them.  There  would  have  been  no  hypocrisy  at 
all  if  he  could  have  regarded  Mr.  Carteret  as  a 
mere  sweet  spectacle,  the  last,  or  almost  the  last, 
illustration  of  a  departing  tradition  of  manners. 
But  he  represented  something  more  than  man- 
ners ;  he  represented  what  he  believed  to  be  mor- 
als and  ideas  —  ideas  as  regards  which  he  took 
your  personal  deference  (not  discovering  how 
natural  that  was)  for  participation.  Nick  liked 
to  think  that  his  father,  though  ten  years  younger, 
had  found  it  congruous  to  make  his  best  friend 
of  the  owner  of  so  nice  a  nature :  it  gave  a  soft- 
ness to  his  feeling  for  that  memory  to  be  re- 
minded that  Sir  Nicholas  had  been  of  the  same 
general  type  —  a  type  so  pure,  so  disinterested, 
so  anxious  about  the  public  good.  Just  so  it  en- 
deared Mr.  Carteret  to  him  to  perceive  that  he 
considered  his  father  had  done  a  definite  work, 
prematurely  interrupted,  which  had  been  an  ab- 
solute benefit  to  the  people  of  England.  The 
oddity  was,  however,  that  though  both  Mr.  Car- 
teret's  aspect  and  his  appreciation  were  still  so 
fresh,  this  relation  of  his  to  his  late  distinguished 
friend  made  the  latter  appear  to  Nick  even  more 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  323 

irrecoverably  dead.  The  good  old  man  had  al- 
most a  vocabulary  of  his  own,  made  up  of  old- 
fashioned  political  phrases  and  quite  untainted 
with  the  new  terms,  mostly  borrowed  from 
America ;  indeed,  his  language  and  his  tone 
made  those  of  almost  any  one  who  might  be  talk- 
ing with  him  appear  by  contrast  rather  American. 
He  was,  at  least  nowadays,  never  severe  nor  de- 
nunciatory ;  but  sometimes,  in  telling  an  anec- 
dote, he  dropped  such  an  expression  as  "the 
rascal  said  to  me,"  or  such  an  epithet  as  "  the 
vulgar  dog." 

Nick  was  always  struck  with  the  rare  sim- 
plicity (it  came  out  in  his  countenance)  of  one 
who  had  lived  so  long  and  seen  so  much  of  affairs 
that  draw  forth  the  passions  and  perversities  of 
men.  It  often  made  him  say  to  himself  that  Mr. 
Carteret  must  have  been  very  remarkable  to 
achieve  with  his  means  so  many  things  requiring 
cleverness.  It  was  as  if  experience,  though  com- 
ing to  him  in  abundance,  had  dealt  with  him  with 
such  clean  hands  as  to  leave  no  stain,  and  had 
never  provoked  him  to  any  general  reflection. 
He  had  never  proceeded  in  any  ironic  way  from 
the  particular  to  the  general;  certainly  he  had 
never  made  a  reflection  upon  anything  so  unpar- 
liamentary as  Life.  He  would  have  questioned 
the  taste  of  such  an  obtrusion,  and  if  he  had  en- 
countered it  on  the  part  of  another  would  have 
regarded  it  as  a  kind  of  French  toy,  with  the 
uses  of  which  he  was  unacquainted.  Life,  for 


324  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

him,  was  a  purely  practical  function,  not  a  ques- 
tion of  phrasing.  It  must  be  added  that  he  had, 
to  Nick's  perception,  his  variations  —  his  back 
windows  opening  into  grounds  more  private. 
That  was  visible  from  the  way  his  eye  grew  cold 
and  his  whole  polite  face  rather  austere  when  he 
listened  to  something  that  he  did  n't  agree  with 
or  perhaps  even  understand;  as  if  his  modesty 
did  not  in  strictness  forbid  the  suspicion  that  a 
thing  he  did  n't  understand  would  have  a  proba- 
bility against  it.  At  such  times  there  was  some- 
thing a  little  deadly  in  the  silence  in  which  he 
simply  waited,  with  a  lapse  in  his  face,  without 
helping  his  interlocutor  out.  Nick  would  have 
been  very  sorry  to  attempt  to  communicate  to 
him  a  matter  which  he  probably  would  not  under- 
stand. This  cut  off,  of  course,  a  multitude  of 
subjects. 

The  evening  passed  exactly  as  Nick  had  fore- 
seen, even  to  the  rather  early  dispersal  of  the 
guests,  two  of  whom  were  "  local "  men,  earnest 
and  distinct,  though  not  particularly  distin- 
guished. The  third  was  a  young,  slim,  uniniti- 
ated gentleman  whom  Lord  Bottomley  brought 
with  him  and  concerning  whom  Nick  was  in- 
formed beforehand  that  he  was  engaged  to  be 
married  to  the  Honorable  Jane,  his  lordship's 
second  daughter.  There  were  recurrent  allu- 
sions to  Nick's  victory,  as  to  which  he  had  the 
fear  that  he  might  appear  to  exhibit  less  interest 
in  it  than  the  company  did.  He  took  energetic 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  32$ 

precautions  against  this  and  felt,  repeatedly,  a 
little  spent  with  them,  for  the  subject  always 
came  up  once  more.  Yet  it  was  not  as  his  but 
as  theirs  that  they  liked  the  triumph.  Mr.  Car- 
teret  took  leave  of  him  for  the  night  directly  after 
the  other  guests  had  gone,  using  at  this  moment 
the  words  that  he  had  often  used  before : 

"  You  may  sit  up  to  any  hour  you  like.     I  only 
ask  that  you  don't  read  in  bed." 


XVII. 

NICK'S  little  visit  was  to  terminate  immediately 
after  luncheon  the  following  day  :  much  as  the 
old  man  enjoyed  his  being  there  he  would  not 
have  dreamed  of  asking  for  more  of  his  time,  now 
that  it  had  such  great  public  uses.  He  liked  in- 
finitely better  that  his  young  friend  should  be  oc- 
cupied with  parliamentary  work  than  only  occu- 
pied in  talking  about  it  with  him.  Talk  about  it, 
however,  was  the  next  best  thing,  as,  on  the  mor- 
row, after  breakfast,  Mr.  Carteret  showed  Nick 
that  he  considered.  They  sat  in  the  garden,  the 
morning  being  warm,  and  the  old  man  had  a  table 
beside  him,  covered  with  the  letters  and  newspa- 
pers that  the  post  had  brought.  He  was  proud 
of  his  correspondence,  which  was  altogether  on 
public  affairs,  and  proud,  in  a  manner,  of  the  fact 
that  he  now  dictated  almost  everything.  That 
had  more  in  it  of  the  statesman  in  retirement,  a 
character  indeed  not  consciously  assumed  by  Mr. 
Carteret,  but  always  tacitly  attributed  to  him  by 
Nick,  who  took  it  rather  from  the  pictorial  point 
of  view  :  remembering,  on  each  occasion,  only  af- 
terwards that  though  he  was  in  retirement  he  had 
not  exactly  been  a  statesman.  A  young  man,  a 
very  sharp,  handy  young  man,  came  every  morning 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  327 

at  ten  o'clock  and  wrote  for  him  till  lunch-time. 
The  young  man  had  a  holiday  to-day,  in  honor  of 
Nick's  visit  —  a  fact  the  mention  of  which  led 
Nick  to  make  some  not  particularly  sincere  speech 
about  his  being  ready  to  write  anything  if  Mr. 
Carteret  were  at  all  pressed. 

"  Ah,  but  your  own  budget :  what  will  become 
of  that  ? "  the  old  gentleman  objected,  glancing  at 
Nick's  pockets  as  if  he  was  rather  surprised  not 
to  see  them  stuffed  out  with  documents  in  split 
envelopes.  His  visitor  had  to  confess  that  he 
had  not  directed  his  letters  to  meet  him  at  Beau- 
clere  :  he  should  find  them  in  town  that  afternoon. 
This  led  to  a  little  homily  from  Mr.  Carteret 
which  made  him  feel  rather  guilty  ;  there  was 
such  an  implication  of  neglected  duty  in  the  way 
the  old  man  said,  "You  won't  do  them  justice  — 
you  won't  do  them  justice."  He  talked  for  ten 
minutes,  in  his  rich,  simple,  urbane  way,  about 
the  fatal  consequences  of  getting  behind.  It  was 
his  favorite  doctrine  that  one  should  always  be  a 
little  before  ;  and  his  own  eminently  regular  res- 
piration seemed  to  illustrate  the  idea.  A  man 
was  certainly  before  who  had  so  much  in  his  rear. 

This  led  to  the  bestowal  of  a  good  deal  of  gen- 
eral advice  as  to  the  mistakes  to  avoid  at  the  be- 
ginning of  a  parliamentary  career  ;  as  to  which 
Mr.  Carteret  spoke  with  the  experience  of  one 
who  had  sat  for  fifty  years  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. Nick  was  amused,  but  also  mystified  and 
even  a  little  irritated,  by  his  talk  :  it  was  founded 


328  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

on  the  idea  of  observation,  and  yet  Nick  was  un- 
able to  regard  Mr.  Carteret  as  an  observer.  "  He 
does  n't  observe  me,"  he  said  to  himself ;  "  if  he 
did  he  would  see,  he  would  n't  think  — "  And 
the  end  of  this  private  cogitation  was  a  vague  im- 
patience of  all  the  things  his  venerable  host  took 
for  granted.  He  didn't  see  any  of  the  things 
that  Nick  saw.  Some  of  these  latter  were  the 
light  touches  that  the  summer  morning  scattered 
through  the  sweet  old  garden.  The  time  passed 
there  a  good  deal  as  if  it  were  sitting  still,  with  a 
plaid  under  its  feet,  while  Mr.  Carteret  distilled  a 
little  more  of  the  wisdom  that  he  had  drawn  from 
his  fifty  years.  This  immense  term  had  some- 
thing fabulous  and  monstrous  for  Nick,  who  won- 
dered whether  it  were  the  sort  of  thing  his  com- 
panion supposed  he  had  gone  in  for.  It  was  not 
strange  Mr.  Carteret  should  be  different ;  he 
might  originally  have  been  more  —  to  himself 
Nick  was  not  obliged  to  phrase  it :  what  our 
young  man  meant  was,  more  of  what  it  was  percep- 
tible to  him  that  his  host  was  not.  Should  even 
he,  Nick,  be  like  that  at  the  end  of  fifty  years  ? 
What  Mr.  Carteret  was  so  good  as  to  expect  for 
him  was  that  he  should  be  much  more  distin- 
guished ;  and  would  n't  this  exactly  mean  much 
more  like  that  ?  Of  course  Nick  heard  some 
things  that  he  had  heard  before  ;  as  for  instance 
the  circumstances  that  had  originally  led  the  old 
man  to  settle  at  Beauclere.  He  had  been  re- 
turned for  that  locality  (it  was  his  second  seat), 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  329 

in  years  far  remote,  and  had  come  to  live  there 
because  he  then  had  a  conscientious  conviction 
(modified  indeed  by  later  experience)  that  a  mem- 
ber should  be  constantly  resident.  He  spoke  of 
this  now,  smiling  rosily,  as  he  might  have  spoken 
of  some  wild  aberration  of  his  youth  ;  yet  he 
called  Nick's  attention  to  the  fact  that  he  still  so 
far  clung  to  his  conviction  as  to  hold  (though  of 
what  might  be  urged  on  the  other  side  he  was 
perfectly  aware)  that  a  representative  should  at 
least  be  as  resident  as  possible.  This  gave  Nick 
an  opening  for  saying  something  that  had  been 
on  and  off  his  lips  all  the  morning. 

"According  to  that  I  ought  to  take  up  my 
abode  at  Harsh." 

"In  the  measure  of  the  convenient  I  should 
not  be  sorry  to  see  you  do  it." 

"  It  ought  to  be  rather  convenient,"  Nick  re- 
plied, smiling.  "  I  've  got  a  piece  of  news  for  you 
which  I  've  kept,  as  one  keeps  that  sort  of  thing 
(for  it 's  very  good),  till  the  last."  He  waited  a 
little,  to  see  if  Mr.  Carteret  would  guess,  and  at 
first  he  thought  nothing  would  come  of  this.  But 
after  resting  his  young-looking  eyes  on  him  for  a 
moment  the  old  man  said  — 

"  I  should  indeed  be  very  happy  to  hear  that 
you  have  arranged  to  take  a  wife." 

"  Mrs.  Dallow  has  been  so  good  as  to  say  that 
she  will  marry  me,"  Nick  went  on. 

"That's  very  suitable.  I  should  think  it 
would  answer." 


33O  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  It 's  very  jolly,"  said  Nick.  It  was  well  that 
Mr.  Carteret  was  not  what  his  guest  called  obser- 
vant, or  he  might  have  thought  there  was  less 
gayety  in  the  sound  of  this  sentence  than  in  the 
sense. 

"  Your  dear  father  would  have  liked  it." 

"  So  my  mother  says." 

"  And  she  must  be  delighted." 

"  Mrs.  Dallow,  do  you  mean  ?  "  Nick  asked. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  your  mother.  But  I  don't 
exclude  the  charming  lady.  I  remember  her  as 
a  little  girl.  I  must  have  seen  her  at  Windrush. 
Now  I  understand  the  zeal  and  amiability  with 
which  she  threw  herself  into  your  canvass." 

"  It  was  her  they  elected,"  said  Nick. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  ever  been  an  enthu- 
siast for  political  women,  but  there  is  no  doubt 
that,  in  approaching  the  mass  of  electors,  a 
graceful,  affable  manner,  the  manner  of  the  real 
English  lady,  is  a  force  not  to  be  despised." 

"  Mrs.  Dallow  is  a  real  English  lady,  and  at  the 
same  time  she's  a  very  political  woman,"  Nick 
remarked. 

"  Is  n't  it  rather  in  the  family  ?  I  remember 
once  going  to  see  her  mother  in  town  and  rinding 
the  leaders  of  both  parties  sitting  with  her." 

"My  principal  friend,  of  the  others,  is  her 
brother  Peter.  I  don't  think  he  troubles  himself 
much  about  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  What  does  he  trouble  himself  about  ? "  Mr. 
Carteret  inquired,  with  a  certain  gravity. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  33! 

"  He  's  in  the  diplomatic  service  ;  he 's  a  secre- 
tary in  Paris." 

"  That  may  be  serious,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  He  takes  a  great  interest  in  the  theatre  ;  I 
suppose  you  '11  say  that  may  be  serious  too,"  Nick 
added,  laughing. 

"  Oh ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Carteret,  looking  as  if 
he  scarcely  understood.  Then  he  continued, 
"  Well,  it  can't  hurt  you." 

"It  can't  hurt  me?" 

"If  Mrs.  Dallow  takes  an  interest  in  your  in- 
terests." 

"  When  a  man  's  in  my  situation  he  feels  as  if 
nothing  could  hurt  him." 

"  I  'm  very  glad  you  're  happy,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
teret. He  rested  his  mild  eyes  on  our  young 
man,  who  had  a  sense  of  seeing  in  them,  for  a 
moment,  the  faint  ghost  of  an  old  story,  the  dim 
revival  of  a  sentiment  that  had  become  the  mem- 
ory of  a  memory.  This  glimmer  of  wonder  and 
envy,  the  revelation  of  a  life  intensely  celibate, 
was  for  an  instant  infinitely  touching.  Nick  had 
always  had  a  theory,  suggested  by  a  vague  allu- 
sion from  his  father,  who  had  been  discreet,  that 
their  benevolent  friend  had  had,  in  his  youth,  an 
unhappy  love-affair  which  had  led  him  to  forswear 
forever  the  commerce  of  woman.  What  re- 
mained in  him  of  conscious  renunciation  gave  a 
throb  as  he  looked  at  his  bright  companion,  who 
proposed  to  take  the  matter  so  much  the  other 
way.  "  It 's  good  to  marry,  and  I  think  it 's  right. 


332  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

I  've  not  done  right,  I  know  it.  If  she 's  a  good 
woman  it 's  the  best  thing,"  Mr.  Carteret  went  on. 
"  It 's  what  I  've  been  hoping  for  you.  Sometimes 
I  Ve  thought  of  speaking  to  you." 

"  She 's  a  very  good  woman,"  said  Nick. 

"And  I  hope  she's  not  poor."  Mr.  Carteret 
spoke  with  exactly  the  same  blandness. 

"  No,  indeed,  she  's  rich.  Her  husband,  whom 
I  knew  and  liked,  left  her  a  large  fortune." 

"  And  on  what  terms  does  she  enjoy  it  ?" 

"  I  have  n't  the  least  idea,"  said  Nick. 

Mr.  Carteret  was  silent  a  moment.  "  I  see.  It 
doesn't  concern  you.  It  need  n't  concern  you," 
he  added  in  a  moment. 

Nick  thought  of  his  mother,  at  this,  but  he  re- 
marked :  "  I  dare  say  she  can  do  what  she  likes 
with  her  money." 

"  So  can  I,  my  dear  young  friend,"  said  Mr. 
Carteret. 

Nick  tried  not  to  look  conscious,  for  he  felt  a 
significance  in  the  old  man's  face.  He  turned  his 
own  everywhere  but  towards  it,  thinking  again  of 
his  mother.  "  That  must  be  very  pleasant,  if  one 
has  any." 

"  I  wish  you  had  a  little  more." 

"  I  don't  particularly  care,"  said  Nick. 

"  Your  marriage  will  assist  you  ;  you  can't  help 
that,"  Mr.  Carteret  went  on.  "  But  I  should  like 
you  to  be  under  obligations  not  quite  so  heavy." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  obliged  to  her  for  caring  for 
me!" 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  333 

"  That  the  rest  does  n't  count  ?  Certainly  it 's 
nice  of  her  to  like  you.  But  why  should  n't  she  ? 
Other  people  do." 

"  Some  of  them  make  me  feel  as  if  I  abused  it," 
said  Nick,  looking  at  his  host.  "  That  is,  they 
don't  make  me,  but  I  feel  it,"  he  added,  correct- 
ing himself. 

"  I  have  no  son,"  said  Mr.  Carteret  "  Sha'n't 
you  be  very  kind  to  her  ?  "  he  pursued.  "  You  '11 
gratify  her  ambition." 

"  Oh,  she  thinks  me  cleverer  than  I  am." 

"  That 's  because  she 's  in  love,"  hinted  the  old 
gentleman,  as  if  this  were  very  subtle.  "  How- 
ever, you  must  be  as  clever  as  we  think  you.  If 
you  don't  prove  so  —  "  And  he  paused,  with  his 
folded  hands. 

"  Well,  if  I  don't  ?  "  asked  Nick. 

"Oh,  it  won't  do  —  it  won't  do,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
teret, in  a  tone  his  companion  was  destined  to  re- 
member afterwards.  "  I  say  I  have  no  son,"  he 
continued  ;  "  but  if  I  had  had  one  he  should  have 
risen  high." 

"  It 's  well  for  me  such  a  person  does  n't  exist. 
I  should  n't  easily  have  found  a  wife." 

"  He  should  have  gone  to  the  altar  with  a  little 
money  in  his  pocket." 

"  That  would  have  been  the  least  of  his  advan- 
tages, sir." 

"  When  are  you  to  be  married  ?  "  Mr.  Carteret 
asked. 

"  Ah,  that 's  the  question.  Mrs.  Dallow  won't 
say." 


334  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Well,  you  may  consider  that  when  it  comes 
off  I  will  make  you  a  settlement." 

"  I  feel  your  kindness  more  than  I  can  say," 
Nick  replied  ;  "  but  that  will  probably  be  the 
moment  when  I  shall  be  least  conscious  of  want- 
ing anything." 

"  You  '11  appreciate  it  later  —  you  '11  appreciate 
it  very  soon.  I  shall  like  you  to  appreciate  it," 
Mr.  Carteret  went  on,  as  if  he  had  a  just  vision 
of  the  way  a  young  man  of  a  proper  spirit  should 
feel.  Then  he  added,  "  Your  father  would  have 
liked  you  to  appreciate  it." 

"  Poor  father ! "  Nick  exclaimed  vaguely,  rather 
embarrassed,  reflecting  on  the  oddity  of  a  position 
in  which  the  ground  for  holding  up  his  head  as 
the  husband  of  a  rich  woman  would  be  that  he 
had  accepted  a  present  of  money  from  another 
source.  It  was  plain  that  he  was  not  fated  to  go 
in  for  independence ;  the  most  that  he  could  treat 
himself  to  would  be  dependence  that  was  duly 
grateful.  "  How  much  do  you  expect  of  me  ? " 
he  pursued,  with  a  grave  face. 

"  It 's  only  what  your  father  did.  He  so  often 
spoke  of  you,  I  remember,  at  the  last,  just  after 
you  had  been  with  him  alone  — ,you  know  I  saw 
him  then.  He  was  greatly  moved  by  his  inter' 
view  with  you,  and  so  was  I  by  what  he  told  me 
of  it.  He  said  he  should  live  on  in  you  —  he 
should  work  in  you.  It  has  always  given  me  a 
very  peculiar  feeling,  if  I  may  use  the  expression, 
about  you." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  335 

"The  feelings  are  indeed  peculiar,  dear  Mr. 
Carteret,  which  take  so  munificent  a  form.  But 
you  do  —  oh,  you  do  —  expect  too  much." 

"  I  expect  you  to  repay  me ! "  said  the  old 
man  gayly.  "  As  for  the  form,  I  have  it  in  my 
mind." 

"  The  form  of  repayment  ?  " 

"No,  no  — of  settlement." 

"Ah,  don't  talk  of  it  now,"  said  Nick,  "for, 
you  see,  nothing  else  is  settled.  No  one  has 
been  told  except  my  mother.  She  has  only  con- 
sented to  my  telling  you." 

"  Lady  Agnes,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Ah,  no ;  dear  mother  would  like  to  publish  it 
on  the  house-tops.  She  's  so  glad  —  she  wants 
us  to  have  it  over  to-morrow.  But  Julia  wishes 
to  wait.  Therefore  kindly  mention  it  for  the 
present  to  no  one." 

"  My  dear  boy,  at  this  rate  there  is  nothing  to 
mention.  What  does  Julia  want  to  wait  for  ? " 

"  Till  I  like  her  better  —  that  's  what  she 
says." 

"  It  's  the  way  to  make  you  like  her  worse. 
Has  n't  she  your  affection  ? " 

"  So  much  so  that  her  delay  makes  me  exceed- 
ingly unhappy." 

Mr.  Carteret  looked  at  his  young  friend  as  if 
he  did  n't  strike  him  as  very  unhappy ;  but  he 
demanded  :  "Then  what  more  does  she  want  ?  " 
Nick  laughed  out  at  this,  but  he  perceived  his 
host  had  not  meant  it  as  an  epigram  ;  while  the 


336  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

latter  went  on  :  "  I  don't  understand.  You  're 
engaged  or  you're  not  engaged." 

"  She  is,  but  I  am  not.  That 's  what  she  says 
about  it.  The  trouble  is  she  does  n't  believe  in 
me." 

"  Does  n't  she  love  you,  then  ? " 

"That's  what  I  ask  her.  Her  answer  is  that 
she  loves  me  only  too  well.  She  's  so  afraid  of 
being  a  burden  to  me  that  she  gives  me  my 
freedom  till  I  've  taken  another  year  to  think." 

"  I  like  the  way  you  talk  about  other  years  !  " 
Mr.  Carteret  exclaimed.  "  You  had  better  do  it 
while  I  'm  here  to  bless  you." 

"  She  thinks  I  proposed  to  her  because  she  got 
me  in  for  Harsh,"  said  Nick. 

"  Well,  I  'm  sure  it  would  be  a  very  pretty  re- 
turn." 

"Ah,  she  doesn't  believe  in  me,"  Nick  mur- 
mured. 

"Then  I  don't  believe  in  her." 

"  Don't  say  that  —  don't  say  that.  She 's  a 
very  rare  creature.  But  she  's  proud,  shy,  sus- 
picious." 

"  Suspicious  of  what  ?  " 

"  Of  everything.  She  thinks  I  'm  not  per- 
sistent." 

"  Persistent  ? " 

"She  can't  believe  I  shall  arrive  at  true  em- 
inence." 

"  A  good  wife  should  believe  what  her  husband 
believes,"  said  Mr.  Carteret. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  337 

"Ah,  unfortunately  I  don't  believe  it,  either." 

Mr.  Carteret  looked  serious.  "  Your  dear  fa- 
ther did." 

"  I  think  of  that  —  I  think  of  that,"  Nick  re- 
plied. "  Certainly  it  will  help  me.  If  I  say  we  're 
engaged,"  he  went  on,  "  it 's  because  I  consider 
it  so.  She  gives  me  my  liberty,  but  I  don't 
take  it." 

"  Does  she  expect  you  to  take  back  your 
word  ? " 

"  That  's  what  I  ask  her.  She  never  will. 
Therefore  we  're  as  good  as  tied." 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  said  Mr.  Carteret,  after  a  mo- 
ment. "  I  don't  like  ambiguous,  uncertain  situa- 
tions. They  please  me  much  better  when  they 
are  definite  and  clear."  The  retreat  of  expression 
had  been  sounded  in  his  face  —  the  aspect  it 
wore  when  he  wished  not  to  be  encouraging. 
But  after  an  instant  he  added,  in  a  tone  softer 
than  this,  "  Don't  disappoint  me,  my  dear  boy." 

"  Disappoint  you  ? " 

"  I  've  told  you  what  I  want  to  do  for  you.  See 
that  the  conditions  come  about  promptly  in  which 
I  may  do  it.  Are  you  sure  that  you  do  every- 
thing to  satisfy  Mrs.  Dallow  ? "  Mr.  Carteret  con- 
tinued. 

"  I  think  I  'm  very  nice  to  her,"  Nick  pro- 
tested. "  But  she 's  so  ambitious.  Frankly  speak- 
ing, it's  a  pity  —  for  her  —  that  she  likes  me." 

"  She  can't  help  that." 

"  Possibly.      But  is  n't  it  a  reason  for  taking 


338  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

me  as  I  am  ?  What  she  wants  to  do  is  to  take  me 
as  I  may  be  a  year  hence." 

"  I  don't  understand,  if,  as  you  say,  even  then 
she  won't  take  back  her  word,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
teret. 

"  If  she  does  n't  marry  me  I  think  she  '11  never 
marry  again  at  all." 

"  What,  then,  does  she  gain  by  delay  ?  " 

"Simply  this,  as  I  make  it  out  —  that  she'll 
feel  she  has  been  very  magnanimous.  She  won't 
have  to  reproach  herself  with  not  having  given 
me  a  chance  to  change." 

"  To  change  ?  What  does  she  think  you  liable 
to  do?" 

Nick  was  silent  a  minute.  "  I  don't  know  !  " 
he  said,  not  at  all  candidly. 

"  Everything  has  altered  :  young  people  in  my 
day  looked  at  these  questions  more  naturally," 
Mr.  Carteret  declared.  "A  woman  in  love  has 
no  need  to  be  magnanimous.  If  she  is,  she  is  n't 
in  love,"  he  added  shrewdly. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Dallow's  safe— she's  safe,"  Nick 
smiled. 

"If  it  were  a  question  between  you  and  an- 
other gentleman  one  might  comprehend.  But 
what  does  it  mean,  between  you  and  nothing  ?  " 

"  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  Nick  re- 
turned. "  The  trouble  is  that  she  does  n't  know 
what  she  has  got  hold  of." 

"Ah,  if  you  can't  make  it  clear  to  her  !  " 

"  I  'm  such  a  humbug,"  said  the  young  man. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  339 

His  companion  stared,  and  he  continued  :  "  I  de- 
ceive people  without  in  the  least  intending  it." 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?  Are  you  de- 
ceiving me  ? " 

"I  don't  know  ;  it  depends  on  what  you  think." 

"  I  think  you  're  flighty,"  said  Mr.  Carteret, 
with  the  nearest  approach  to  sternness  that  Nick 
had  ever  observed  in  him.  "  I  never  thought  so 
before." 

"  Forgive  me  ;  it 's  all  right.  I  'm  not  frivolous  ; 
that  I  affirm  I  'm  not." 

"You  have  deceived  me  if  you  are." 

"  It 's  all  right,"  Nick  stammered,  with  a  blush. 

"  Remember  your  name  —  carry  it  high." 

"  I  will  —  as  high  as  possible." 

"  You  Ve  no  excuse.  Don't  tell  me,  after  your 
speeches  at  Harsh  !  "  Nick  was  on  the  point  of 
declaring  again  that  he  was  a  humbug,  so  vivid 
was  his  inner  sense  of  what  he  thought  of  his  fac- 
titious public  utterances,  which  had  the  cursed 
property  of  creating  dreadful  responsibilities  and 
importunate  credulities  for  him.  If  he  was  "  cle- 
ver," what  fools  many  other  people  were !  He 
repressed  his  impulse,  and  Mr.  Carteret  pursued : 
"  If,  as  you  express  it,  Mrs.  Dallow  does  n't  know, 
what  she  has  got  hold  of,  won't  it  clear  the  matter 
up  a  little  if  you  inform  her  that  the  day  before 
your  marriage  is  definitely  settled  to  take  place 
you  will  come  into  something  comfortable  ? " 

A  quick  vision  of  what  Mr.  Carteret  would  be 
likely  to  regard  as  something  comfortable  flitted 


340  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

before  Nick,  but  it  did  not  prevent  him  from 
replying :  "  Oh,  I  'm  afraid  that  won't  do  any 
good.  It  would  make  her  like  you  better,  but  it 
would  n't  make  her  like  me.  I  'm  afraid  she  won't 
care  for  any  benefit  that  comes  to  me  from  an- 
other hand  than  hers.  Her  affection  is  a  very 
jealous  sentiment." 

"It's  a  very  peculiar  one!"  sighed  Mr.  Car- 
teret.  "Mine's  a  jealous  sentiment,  too.  How- 
ever, if  she  takes  it  that  way,  don't  tell  her." 

"  I  '11  let  you  know  as  soon  as  she  comes 
round,"  said  Nick." 

"  And  you  '11  tell  your  mother,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
teret.  "  I  shall  like  her  to  know." 

"  It  will  be  delightful  news  to  her.  But  she 's 
keen  enough  already." 

"  I  know  that.  I  may  mention  now  that  she 
has  written  to  me,"  the  old  man  added. 

"  So  I  suspected." 

"We  have  corresponded  on  the  subject,"  Mr. 
Carteret  continued  to  confess.  "  My  view  of  the 
advantageous  character  of  such  an  alliance  has 
entirely  coincided  with  hers." 

"  It  was  very  good-natured  of  you  to  leave  me 
to  speak  first,"  said  Nick. 

"  I  should  have  been  disappointed  if  you  had  n't. 
I  don't  like  all  you  have  told  me.  But  don't  dis- 
appoint me  now." 

"  Dear  Mr.  Carteret ! "  Nick  exclaimed. 

" I  won't  disappoint  yott"  the  old  man  went 
on,  looking  at  his  big,  old-fashioned  watch. 


XVIII. 

AT  first  Peter  Sherringham  thought  of  asking 
to  be  transferred  to  another  post  and  went  so 
far,  in  London,  as  to  take  what  he  believed  to  be 
good  advice  on  the  subject.  The  advice  perhaps 
struck  him  as  the  better  for  consisting  of  a  strong 
recommendation  to  do  nothing  so  foolish.  Two 
or  three  reasons  were  mentioned  to  him  why 
such  a  request  would  not,  in  the  particular  cir- 
cumstances, raise  him  in  the  esteem  of  his  supe- 
riors, and  he  promptly  recognized  their  force.  It 
next  appeared  to  him  that  it  might  help  him  (not 
with  his  superiors,  but  with  himself)  to  apply  for 
an  extension  of  leave ;  but  on  further  reflection 
he  remained  convinced  that  though  there  are 
some  dangers  before  which  it  is  perfectly  consis-> 
tent  with  honor  to  flee,  it  was  better  for  every 
one  concerned  that  he  should  fight  this  especial 
battle  on  the  spot.  During  his  holiday  his  plan 
of  campaign  gave  him  plenty  of  occupation.  He 
refurbished  his  arms,  rubbed  up  his  strategy,  laid 
out  his  lines  of  defense. 

There  was  only  one  thing  in  life  that  his  mind 
had  been  very  much  made  up  to,  but  on  this 
question  he  had  never  wavered:  he  would  get 
on,  to  the  utmost,  in  his  profession.  It  was  a 


342  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE, 

point  on  which  it  was  perfectly  lawful  to  be  un- 
amiable  to  others  —  to  be  vigilant,  eager,  suspi- 
cious, selfish.  He  had  not,  in  fact,  been  unami- 
able  to  others,  for  his  affairs  had  not  required  it : 
he  had  got  on  well  enough  without  hardening  his 
heart.  Fortune  had  been  kind  to  him,  and  he 
had  passed  so  many  competitors  on  the  way  that 
he  could  forswear  jealousy  and  be  generous.  But 
he  had  always  flattered  himself  that  his  hand 
would  not  falter  on  the  day  he  should  find  it 
necessary  to  drop  bitterness  into  his  cup.  This 
day  would  be  sure  to  dawn,  for  no  career  was  all 
clear  water  to  the  end  ;  and  then  the  sacrifice 
would  find  him  ready.  His  mind  was  familiar 
with  the  thought  of  a  sacrifice :  it  is  true  that 
nothing  could  be  plain  in  advance  about  the  oc- 
casion, the  object,  the  victim.  All  that  was  tol- 
erably definite  was  that  the  propitiatory  offering 
would  have  to  be  some  cherished  enjoyment. 
Very  likely,  indeed,  this  enjoyment  would  be 
associated  with  the  charms  of  another  person  — 
a  probability  pregnant  with  the  idea  that  such 
charms  would  have  to  be  dashed  out  of  sight. 
At  any  rate,  it  never  had  occurred  to  Sherring- 
ham  that  he  himself  might  be  the  sacrifice.  You 
had  to  pay,  to  get  on  ;  but  at  least  you  borrowed 
from  others  to  do  it.  When  you  could  n't  borrow 
you  did  n't  get  on  :  for  what  was  the  situation  in 
life  in  which  you  met  the  whole  requisition  your- 
self ? 

Least  of  all  had  it  occurred  to  our  friend  that 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  343 

the  wrench  might  come  through  his  interest  in 
that  branch  of  art  on  which  Nick  Dormer  had 
rallied  him.  The  beauty  of  a  love  of  the  theatre 
was  precisely  that  it  was  a  passion  exercised  on 
the  easiest  terms.  This  was  not  the  region  of 
responsibility.  It  had  the  discredit  of  being 
sniffed  at  by  the  austere  ;  but  if  it  was  not,  as 
they  said,  a  serious  field,  was  not  the  compensa- 
tion just  that  you  could  not  be  seriously  entan- 
gled in  it  ?  Sherringham's  great  advantage,  as 
he  regarded  the  matter,  was  that  he  had  always 
kept  his  taste  for  the  drama  quite  in  its  place. 
His  facetious  cousin  was  free  to  pretend  that  it 
sprawled  through  his  life  ;  but  this  was  nonsense, 
as  any  unprejudiced  observer  of  that  life  would 
unhesitatingly  attest.  There  had  not  been  the 
least  sprawling,  and  his  fancy  for  the  art  of  Gar- 
rick  had  never  worn  the  proportions  of  an  eccen- 
tricity. It  had  never  drawn  down  from  above 
anything  approaching  a  reprimand,  a  remon- 
strance, a  remark.  Sherringham  was  positively 
proud  of  his  discretion  ;  for  he  was  a  little  proud 
of  what  he  did  know  about  the  stage.  Trifling 
for  trifling,  there  were  plenty  of  his  fellows  who 
had  in  their  lives  private  infatuations  much  sillier 
and  less  confessable.  Had  he  not  known  men 
who  collected  old  invitation-cards  (hungry  for 
those  of  the  last  century),  and  others  who  had  a 
secret  passion  for  shuffleboard  ?  His  little  weak- 
nesses were  intellectual  —  they  were  a  part  of  the 
life  of  the  mind.  All  the  same,  on  the  day  they 


344  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

showed  a  symptom  of  interfering  they  should  be 
plucked  off  with  a  turn  of  the  wrist. 

Sherringham  scented  interference  now,  and 
interference  in  rather  an  invidious  form.  It 
might  be  a  bore,  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
profession,  to  find  one's  self,  as  a  critic  of  the 
stage,  in  love  with  a  coquine  ;  but  it  was  a  much 
greater  bore  to  find  one's  self  in  love  with  a 
young  woman  whose  character  remained  to  be 
estimated.  Miriam  Rooth  was  neither  fish  nor 
flesh :  one  had  with  her  neither  the  guarantees 
of  one's  own  class  nor  the  immunities  of  hers. 
What  was  hers,  if  one  came  to  that  ?  A  certain 
puzzlement  about  this  very  point  was  part  of  the 
fascination  which  she  had  ended  by  throwing 
over  him.  Poor  Sherringham's  scheme  for  get- 
ting on  had  contained  no  proviso  against  falling 
in  love,  but  it  had  embodied  an  important  clause 
on  the  subject  of  surprises.  It  was  always  a  sur- 
prise to  fall  in  love,  especially  if  one  were  look- 
ing out  for  it ;  so  this  contingency  had  not  been 
worth  official  paper.  But  it  became  a  man  who 
respected  the  service  he  had  undertaken  for  the 
state  to  be  on  his  guard  against  predicaments 
from  which  the  only  issue  was  the  rigor  of  matri- 
mony. An  ambitious  diplomatist  would  probably 
be  wise  to  marry,  but  only  with  his  eyes  very 
much  open.  That  was  the  fatal  surprise  —  to  be 
led  to  the  altar  in  a  dream.  Sherringham's  view 
of  the  proprieties  attached  to  such  a  step  was 
high  and  strict ;  and  if  he  held  that  a  man  in  his 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  345 

position  was,  especially  as  the  position  improved, 
essentially  a  representative  of  the  greatness  of 
his  country,  he  considered  that  the  wife  of  such 
a  personage  would  exercise  in  her  degree  (for  in- 
stance, at  a  foreign  court)  a  function  no  less  sym- 
bolic. She  would  always  be,  in  short,  a  very  im- 
portant quantity,  and  the  scene  was  strewn  with 
illustrations  of  this  general  truth.  She  might  be 
such  a  help  and  she  might  be  such  a  blight  that 
common  prudence  required  that  one  should  test 
her  in  advance.  Sherringham  had  seen  women, 
in  the  career,  who  were  stupid  or  vulgar,  make  a 
mess  of  things  —  it  was  enough  to  wring  your 
heart.  Then  he  had  his  positive  idea  of  the  per- 
fect ambassadress,  the  full-blown  lily  of  the  fu- 
ture ;  and  with  this  idea  Miriam  Rooth  presented 
no  analogy  whatever. 

The  girl  had  described  herself,  with  character- 
istic directness,  as  "  all  right ;  "  and  so  she  might 
be,  so  she  assuredly  was  :  only  all  right  for  what  ? 
He  had  divined  that  she  was  not  sentimental  — 
that  whatever  capacity  she  might  have  for  re- 
sponding to  a  devotion,  or  for  desiring  it  was  at 
any  rate  not  in  the  direction  of  vague  philander- 
ing. With  him  certainly  she  had  no  disposition 
to  philander.  Sherringham  was  almost  afraid  to 
think  of  this,  lest  it  should  beget  in  him  a  rage 
convertible  mainly  into  caring  for  her  more. 
Rage  or  no  rage,  it  would  be  charming  to  be  in 
love  with  her  if  there  were  no  complications  ;  but 
the  complications  were,  in  advance,  just  what  was 


346  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

clearest  in  the  business.  He  was  perhaps  cold- 
blooded  to  think  of  them ;  but  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  they  were  the  particular  thing  which 
his  training  had  equipped  him  for  dealing  with. 
He  was,  at  all  events,  not  too  cold-blooded  to 
have,  for  the  two  months  of  his  holiday,  very  lit- 
tle inner  vision  of  anything  more  abstract  than 
Miriam's  face.  The  desire  to  see  it  again  was  as 
pressing  as  thirst ;  but  he  tried  to  teach  himself 
the  endurance  of  the  traveler  in  the  desert.  He 
kept  the  Channel  between  them,  but  his  spirit 
moved  every  day  an  inch  nearer  to  her,  until  (and 
it  was  not  long)  there  were  no  more  inches  left. 
The  last  thing  he  expected  the  future  ambassa- 
dress to  have  been  was  a  fille  de  theatre.  The 
answer  to  this  objection  was  of  course  that  Mir- 
iam was  not  yet  so  much  of  one  but  that  he  could 
easily  head  her  off.  Then  came  worrying  retorts 
to  that,  chief  among  which  was  the  sense  that  to 
his  artistic  conscience  heading  her  off  would  be 
simple  shallowness.  The  poor  girl  had  a  right  to 
her  chance,  and  he  should  not  really  alter  anything 
by  taking  it  away  from  her ;  for  was  she  not  the 
artist  to  the  tips  of  her  tresses  (the  ambassadress 
never  in  the  world),  and  would  she  not  take  it 
out  in  something  else  if  one  were  to  make  her  de- 
viate ?  So  certain  was  that  irrepressible  deviltry 
to  insist  ever  on  its  own. 

Besides,  could  one  make  her  deviate  ?  If  she 
had  no  disposition  to  philander,  what  was  his 
warrant  for  supposing  that  she  could  be  cor- 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  347 

rupted  into  respectability  ?  How  could  the  career 
(his  career)  speak  to  a  nature  which  had  glimpses, 
as  vivid  as  they  were  crude,  of  such  a  different 
range,  and  for  which  success  meant  quite  another 
sauce  to  the  dish  ?  Would  the  brilliancy  of  mat- 
rying  Peter  Sherringham  be  such  a  bribe  to  relin- 
quishment  ?  How  could  he  think  so  without 
fatuity  —  how  could  he  regard  himself  as  a  high 
prize  ?  Relinquishment  of  the  opportunity  to  ex- 
ercise a  rare  talent  was  not,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
an  easy  effort  to  a  young  lady  who  was  conceited 
as  well  as  ambitious.  Besides,  she  might  eat  her 
cake  and  have  it  —  might  make  her  fortune  both 
on  the  stage  and  in  the  world.  Successful  ac- 
tresses had  ended  by  marrying  dukes,  and  was 
not  that  better  than  remaining  obscure  and  mar- 
rying a  commoner  ?  There  were  moments  when 
Sherringham  tried  to  think  that  Miriam's  talent 
was  not  a  force  to  reckon  with  ;  there  was  so  lit- 
tle to  show  for  it  as  yet  that  the  caprice  of  believ- 
ing in  it  would  perhaps  suddenly  leave  her.  But 
his  suspicion  that  it  was  real  was  too  uneasy  to 
make  such  an  experiment  peaceful,  and  he  came 
back,  moreover,  to  his  deepest  impression  —  that 
of  her  being  of  the  turn  of  mind  for  which  the 
only  consistency  is  talent.  Had  not  Madame 
Carre"  said  at  the  last  that  she  could  "do  any- 
thing "  ?  It  was  true  that  if  Madame  Carr6  had 
been  mistaken  in  the  first  place  she  might  also  be 
mistaken  in  the  second.  But  in  this  latter  case 
she  would  be  mistaken  with  him,  and  such  an 
error  would  be  too  like  a  truth. 


348  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

I  ought  possibly  to  hesitate  to  say  how  much 
Sherringham  felt  the  discomfort,  for  him,  of  the 
advantage  that  Miriam  had  of  him  —  the  advan- 
tage of  her  presenting  herself  in  a  light  which 
rendered  any  passion  that  he  might  entertain  an 
implication  of  duty  as  well  as  of  pleasure.  Why 
there  should  be  this  implication  was  more  than 
he  could  say  ;  sometimes  he  declared  to  himself 
that  he  was  superstitious  for  seeing  it.  He 
did  n't  know,  he  could  scarcely  conceive,  of 
another  case,  of  the  same  general  type,  in  which 
he  would  have  seen  it.  In  foreign  countries 
there  were  very  few  ladies  of  Miss  Rooth's  in- 
tended profession  who  would  not  have  regarded 
it  as  too  strong  an  order  that,  to  console  them  for 
not  being  admitted  into  drawing-rooms  they 
should  have  no  offset  but  the  exercise  of  a  virtue 
in  which  no  one  would  believe.  Because,  in  for- 
eign countries  actresses  were  not  admitted  into 
drawing-rooms  :  that  was  a  pure  English  droll- 
ery, ministering  equally  little  to  histrionics  and  to 
the  tone  of  these  resorts.  Did  the  sanctity  which 
to  his  imagination  made  it  a  burden  to  have  to 
reckon  with  Miriam  come  from  her  being  English  ? 
Sherringham  could  remember  cases  in  which 
that  privilege  operated  as  little  as  possible  as  a 
restriction.  It  came  a  great  deal  from  Mrs. 
Rooth,  in  whom  he  apprehended  depths  of  calcu- 
lation as  to  what  she  might  achieve  for  her 
daughter  by  "  working  "  the  idea  of  a  blameless 
life.  Her  romantic  turn  of  mind  would  not  in 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  349 

the  least  prevent  her  from  regarding  that  idea  as 
a  substantial  capital,  to  be  laid  out  to  the  best 
worldly  advantage.  Miriam's  essential  irreverence 
was  capable,  on  a  pretext,  of  making  mince-meat 
of  it  —  that  he  was  sure  of  ;  for  the  only  capital 
she  recognized  was  the  talent  which  some  day 
managers  and  agents  would  outbid  each  other  in 
paying  for.  But  she  was  a  good-natured  creature ; 
she  was  fond  of  her  mother,  would  do  anything 
to  oblige  (that  might  work  in  all  sorts  of  ways), 
and  would  probably  like  the  loose  slippers  of 
blamelessness  quite  as  well  as  the  high  standards 
of  the  opposite  camp. 

Sherringham,  I  may  add,  had  no  desire  that 
she  should  indulge  a  different  preference  :  it  was 
foreign  to  him  to  compute  the  probabilities  of  a 
young  lady's  misbehaving  for  his  advantage  (that 
seemed  to  him  definitely  base),  and  he  would 
have  thought  himself  a  blackguard  if,  professing 
a  tenderness  for  Miriam,  he  had  not  wished  the 
thing  that  was  best  for  her.  The  thing  that  was 
best  for  her  would  no  doubt  be  to  become  the 
wife  of  the  man  to  whose  suit  she  should  incline 
her  ear.  That  this  would  be  the  best  thing  for 
the  gentleman  in  question  was,  however,  a  very 
different  matter,  and  Sherringham's  final  convic- 
tion was  that  it  would  never  do  for  him  to  act  the 
part  of  that  hypothetic  personage.  He  asked  for 
no  removal  and  no  extension  of  leave,  and  he 
proved  to  himself  how  well  he  knew  what  he 
was  about  by  never  addressing  a  line,  during  his 


35O  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

absence,  to  the  H6tel  de  la  Garonne.  He  would 
simply  go  straight,  and  inflict  as  little  injury  upon 
Peter  Sherringham  as  upon  any  one  else.  He 
remained  away  to  the  last  hour  of  his  privilege 
and  continued  to  act  lucidly  in  having  nothing  to 
do  with  the  mother  and  daughter  for  several  days 
after  his  return  to  Paris. 

It  was  when  this  discipline  came  to  an  end, 
one  afternoon,  after  a  week  had  passed,  that  he 
felt  most  the  force  of  the  reference  that  has  just 
been  made  to  Mrs.  Rooth's  private  reckonings. 
He  found  her  at  home,  alone,  writing  a  letter 
under  the  lamp,  and  as  soon  as  he  came  in  she 
cried  out  that  he  was  the  very  person  to  whom 
the  letter  was  addressed.  She  could  bear  it  no 
longer ;  she  had  permitted  herself  to  reproach 
him  with  his  terrible  silence  —  to  ask  why  he  had 
quite  forsaken  them.  It  was  an  illustration  of 
the  way  in  which  her  visitor  had  come  to  regard 
her  that  he  rather  disbelieved  than  believed  this 
description  of  the  crumpled  papers  lying  on  the 
table.  He  was  not  sure  even  that  he  believed 
that  Miriam  had  just  gone  out.  He  told  her 
mother  how  busy  he  had  been  all  the  while  he 
was  away  and  how  much  time,  in  particular,  he 
had  had  to  give,  in  London,  to  seeing  on  her 
daughter's  behalf  the  people  connected  with  the 
theatres. 

"  Ah,  if  you  pity  me,  tell  me  that  you  've  got 
her  an  engagement ! "  Mrs.  Rooth  cried,  clasp- 
ing her  hands. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  351 

"  I  took  a  great  deal  of  trouble ;  I  wrote  ever 
so  many  notes,  sought  introductions,  talked  with 
people  —  such  impossible  people,  some  of  them. 
In  short  I  knocked  at  every  door,  I  went  into 
the  question  exhaustively."  And  he  enumerated 
the  things  he  had  done,  imparted  some  of  the 
knowledge  he  had  gathered.  The  difficulties  were 
immense,  and  even  with  the  influence  he  could 
command  (such  as  it  was)  there  was  very  little 
to  be  achieved  in  face  of  them.  Still,  he  had 
gained  ground :  there  were  two  or  three  fellows, 
men  with  small  theatres,  who  had  listened  to  him 
better  than  the  others,  and  there  was  one  in  par- 
ticular whom  he  had  a  hope  he  really  might  have 
interested.  From  him  he  had  extracted  certain 
benevolent  assurances  :  he  would  see  Miriam,  he 
would  listen  to  her,  he  would  do  for  her  what  he 
could.  The  trouble  was  that  no  one  would  lift  a 
finger  for  a  girl  unless  she  were  known,  and  yet 
that  she  never  could  become  known  until  in- 
numerable fingers  were  lifted.  You  could  n't  go 
into  the  water  unless  you  could  swim,  and  you 
could  n't  swim  until  you  had  been  in  the  water. 

"  But  new  performers  appear  ;  they  get  thea- 
tres, they  get  audiences,  they  get  notices  in  the 
newspapers,"  Mrs.  Rooth  objected.  "  I  know  of 
these  things  only  what  Miriam  tells  me.  It 's  no 
knowledge  that  I  was  born  to." 

"  It  's  perfectly  true  ;  it  's  all  done  with 
money." 

"And  how  do  they  come  by  money?"  Mrs. 
Rooth  asked,  candidly. 


352  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  When  they  're  women  people  give  it  to 
them." 

"  Well,  what  people,  now  ?  " 

"  People  who  believe  in  them." 

"  As  you  believe  in  Miriam  ? " 

Sherringham  was  silent  a  moment.  "  No,  rather 
differently.  A  poor  man  does  n't  believe  anything 
in  the  same  way  that  a  rich  man  does." 

"  Ah,  don't  call  yourself  poor  !  "  groaned  Mrs. 
Rooth. 

"  What  good  would  it  do  me  to  be  rich  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  could  take  a  theatre ;  you  could  do 
it  all  yourself." 

"  And  what  good  would  that  do  me  ?  " 

"Why,  don't  you  delight  in  her  genius?"  de- 
manded Mrs.  Rooth. 

"  I  delight  in  her  mother.  You  think  me  more 
disinterested  than  I  am,"  Sherringham  added, 
with  a  certain  soreness  of  irritation. 

"  I  know  why  you  did  n't  write  !  "  Mrs.  Rooth 
declared,  archly. 

"  You  must  go  to  London,"  Peter  said,  without 
heeding  this  remark. 

"  Ah,  if  we  could  only  get  there  it  would  be  a 
relief.  I  should  draw  a  long  breath.  There,  at 
least,  I  know  where  I  am,  and  what  people  are. 
But  here  one  lives  on  hollow  ground  ! " 

"  The  sooner  you  get  away  the  better,"  Sher- 
ringham went  on. 

"  I  know  why  you  say  that." 

"It 's  just  what  I  'm  explaining." 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  353 

0  I  could  n't  have  held  out  if  I  had  n't  been  so 
sure  of  Miriam,"  said  Mrs.  Rooth. 

"  Well,  you  need  n't  hold  out  any  longer." 

"  Don't  you  trust  her  ?  "  asked  Sherringhara's 
hostess. 

"Trust  her?" 

"  You  don't  trust  yourself.  That 's  why  you 
were  silent,  why  we  might  have  thought  you  were 
dead,  why  we  might  have  perished  ourselves." 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand  you  ;  I  don't  know 
what  you  're  talking  about,"  Sherringham  said. 
"  But  it  does  n't  matter." 

"  Does  n't  it  ?  Let  yourself  go  ;  why  should 
you  struggle  ? "  the  old  woman  inquired. 

Her  unexpected  insistence  annoyed  her  visitor, 
and  he  was  silent  again,  looking  at  her,  on  the 
point  of  telling  her  that  he  did  n't  like  her  tone. 
But  he  had  his  tongue  under  such  control  that 
he  was  able  presently  to  say,  instead  of  this  — 
and  it  was  a  relief  to  him  to  give  audible  voice  to 
the  reflection  :  "  It 's  a  great  mistake,  either  way, 
for  a  man  to  be  in  love  with  an  actress.  Either 
it  means  nothing  serious,  and  what 's  the  use  of 
that  ?  or  it  means  everything,  and  that 's  still 
more  delusive." 

"  Delusive  ? " 

"  Idle,  unprofitable." 

"  Surely,  a  pure  affection  is  its  own  reward," 
Mrs.  Rooth  rejoined,  with  soft  reasonableness. 

"  In  such  a  case  how  can  it  be  pure  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  talking  of  an  English 
gentleman,"  said  Mrs.  Rooth. 


354  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Call  the  poor  fellow  whatever  you  like :  a 
man  with  his  life  to  lead,  his  way  to  make,  his 
work,  his  duties,  his  career,  to  attend  to.  If  it 
means  nothing,  as  I  say,  the  thing  it  means  least 
of  all  is  marriage." 

"  Oh,  my  own  Miriam  !  "  murmured  Mrs. 
Rooth. 

"On  the  other  hand,  fancy  the  complication 
if  such  a  man  marries  a  woman  who  is  on  the 
stage." 

Mrs.  Rooth  looked  as  if  she  were  trying  to  fol- 
low. "  Miriam  is  n't  on  the  stage  yet." 

"  Go  to  London,  and  she  soon  will  be." 

"  Yes,  and  then  you  '11  have  your  excuse." 

"  My  excuse  ?  " 

"  For  deserting  us  altogether." 

Sherringham  broke  into  laughter  at  this,  the 
tone  was  so  droll.  Then  he  rejoined,  "Show  me 
some  good  acting  and  I  won't  desert  you." 

"  Good  acting  ?  Ah,  what  is  the  best  acting 
compared  with  the  position  of  an  English  lady  ? 
If  you  '11  take  her  as  she  is,  you  may  have  her," 
Mrs.  Rooth  suddenly  added. 

"As  she  is,  with  all  her  ambitions  unas- 
suaged  ? " 

"  To  marry  you  —  might  not  that  be  an  ambi- 
tion ?  " 

"A  very  paltry  one.  Don't  answer  for  her, 
don't  attempt  that,"  said  Sherringham.  "You 
can  do  much  better." 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  ? "  smiled  Mrs.  Rooth. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  355 

"  I  don't  want  to  ;  I  only  want  to  let  it  alone. 
She  's  an  artist ;  you  must  give  her  her  head," 
Peter  went  on.  "  You  must  always  give  an  artist 
his  head." 

"  But  I  have  known  great  ladies  who  were 
artists.  In  English  society  there  is  always  a 
field." 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  of  English  society  !  Thank 
heaven,  in  the  first  place,  I  don't  live  in  it.  Do 
you  want  her  to  give  up  her  genius  ?" 

"  I  thought  you  did  n't  care  for  it." 

"  She  'd  say,  '  No,  I  thank  you,  dear  mamma.' " 

"  My  gifted  child  !  "  Mrs.  Rooth  murmured. 

"  Have  you  ever  proposed  it  to  her  ?  " 

"  Proposed  it  ? " 

"  That  she  should  give  up  trying." 

Mrs.  Rooth  hesitated,  looking  down.  "Not 
for  the  reason  you  mean.  We  don't  talk  about 
love,"  she  simpered. 

"  Then  it 's  so  much  less  time  wasted.  Don't 
stretch  out  your  hand  to  the  worse  when  it  may 
some  day  grasp  the  better,"  Sherringham  pur- 
sued. Mrs.  Rooth  raised  her  eyes  at  him,  as  if 
she  recognized  the  force  there  might  be  in  that, 
and  he  added :  "  Let  her  blaze  out,  let  her  look 
about  her.  Then  you  may  talk  to  me  if  you 
like." 

"  It 's  very  puzzling,"  the  old  woman  remarked, 
artlessly. 

Sherringham  laughed  again ;  then  he  said, 
"  Now  don't  tell  me  I  'm  not  a  good  friend." 


356  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  You  are  indeed  —  you  're  a  very  noble  gen- 
tleman. That  's  just  why  a  quiet  life  with 
you  —  " 

"  It  would  n't  be  quiet  for  me  !  "  Sherringham 
broke  in.  "  And  that 's  not  what  Miriam  was 
made  for." 

"  Don't  say  that,  for  my  precious  one !  "  Mrs. 
Rooth  quavered. 

"  Go  to  London  —  go  to  London,"  her  visitor 
repeated. 

Thoughtfully,  after  an  instant,  she  extended 
her  hand  and  took  from  the  table  the  letter  on 
the  composition  of  which  he  had  found  her  en- 
gaged. Then,  with  a  quick  movement,  she  tore 
it  up.  "  That 's  what  Mr.  Dash  wood  says." 

"  Mr.  Dashwood  ?  " 

"  I  forgot  you  don't  know  him.  He 's  the 
brother  of  that  lady  we  met  the  day  you  were  so 
good  as  to  receive  us ;  the  one  who  was  so  kind 
to  us  —  Mrs.  Lovick." 

"  I  never  heard  of  him." 

"  Don't  you  remember  that  she  spoke  of  him, 
and  Mr.  Lovick  did  n't  seem  very  kind  about 
him  ?  She  told  us  that  if  he  were  to  meet  us  — 
and  she  was  so  good  as  to  insinuate  that  it  would 
be  a  pleasure  to  him  to  do  so  —  he  might  give  us, 
as  she  said,  a  tip." 

Sherringham  indulged  in  a  visible  effort  to  rec- 
ollect. "  Yes,  he  comes  back  to  me.  He  's  an 
actor." 

"  He 's  a  gentleman  too,"  said  Mrs.  Rooth. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  357 

"  And  you  've  met  him,  and  he  has  given  you 
a  tip  ? " 

"  As  I  say,  he  wants  us  to  go  to  London." 

"  I  see,  but  even  I  can  tell  you  that" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Rooth  ;  "  but  he  says  he 
can  help  us." 

"  Keep  hold  of  him,  then,  if  he 's  in  the  busi- 
ness." 

"  He 's  a  perfect  gentleman,"  said  Mrs.  Rooth. 
"  He  's  immensely  struck  with  Miriam." 

"  Better  and  better.     Keep  hold  of  him." 

"  Well,  I  'm  glad  you  don't  object,"  Mrs.  Rooth 
smiled. 

"  Why  should  I  object  ? " 

"  You  don't  consider  us  as  all  your  own  ?  " 

"  My  own  ?  Why,  I  regard  you  as  the  public's 
—  the  world's." 

Mrs.  Rooth  gave  a  little  shudder.  "There's 
a  sort  of  chill  in  that.  It 's  grand,  but  it 's  cold. 
However,  I  need  n't  hesitate,  then,  to  tell  you 
that  it's  with  Mr.  Dash  wood  that  Miriam  has 
gone  out." 

"  Why  hesitate,  gracious  heaven  ? "  But  in 
the  next  breath  Sherringham  asked  :  "  Where  has 
she  gone  ? " 

"  You  don't  like  it !  "  laughed  Mrs.  Rooth. 

"  Why  should  it  be  a  thing  to  be  enthusiastic 
about  ? " 

"  Well,  he 's  charming,  and  /  trust  him." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Sherringham. 

"  They  've  gone  to  see  Madame  Carre"." 


358  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  She  has  come  back,  then  ?  " 

"  She  was  expected  back  last  week.  Miriam 
wants  to  show  her  how  she  has  improved." 

"  And  has  she  improved  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  —  with  my  mother's  heart  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Rooth.  "I  don't  judge;  I  only  wait 
and  pray.  But  Mr.  Dashwood  thinks  she  is  won- 
derful." 

"  That 's  a  blessing.  And  when  did  he  turn 
up  ? " 

"  About  a  fortnight  ago.  We  met  Mrs.  Lovick 
at  the  English  church,  and  she  was  so  good  as 
to  recognize  us  and  speak  to  us.  She  said  she 
had  been  away,  with  her  children,  or  she  would 
have  come  to  see  us.  She  had  just  returned  to 
Paris." 

"  Yes,  I  've  not  yet  seen  her,"  said  Sherring- 
ham.  "  I  see  Lovick,  but  he  does  n't  talk  of  his 
brother-in-law." 

"  I  did  n't,  that  day,  like  his  tone  about  him," 
Mrs.  Rooth  observed.  "  We  walked  a  little  way 
with  Mrs.  Lovick,  and  she  asked  Miriam  about 
her  prospects  and  if  she  were  working.  Miriam 
said  she  had  no  prospects." 

"  That  was  not  very  nice  to  me,"  Sherringham 
interrupted. 

"  But  when  you  had  left  us  in  black  darkness, 
what  were  our  prospects  ?  " 

"  I  see  ;  it 's  all  right.     Go  on." 

"  Then  Mrs.  Lovick  said  her  brother  was  to  be 
in  Paris  a  few  days  and  she  would  tell  him  to 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  359 

come  and  see  us.  He  arrived,  she  told  him,  and 
he  came.  Voilct !  "  said  Mrs.  Rooth. 

"  So  that  now  (so  far  as  he  is  concerned)  Miss 
Rooth  has  prospects  ?  " 

"  He  is  n't  a  manager,  unfortunately." 

"  Where  does  he  act  ? " 

"  He  is  n't  acting  just  now ;  he  has  been  abroad. 
He  has  been  to  Italy,  I  believe,  and  he  is  just 
stopping  here  on  his  way  to  London." 

"  I  see ;  he  is  a  perfect  gentleman,"  said  Sher- 
ringham. 

"Ah,  you're  jealous  of  him." 

"  No,  but  you  're  trying  to  make  me  so.  The 
more  competitors  there  are  for  the  glory  of  bring- 
ing her  out,  the  better  for  her." 

"  Mr.  Dashwood  wants  to  take  a  theatre,"  said 
Mrs.  Rooth. 

"  Then  perhaps  he's  our  man." 

"  Oh,  if  you  'd  help  him  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Rooth. 

"  Help  him  ? " 

"  Help  him  to  help  us." 

"  We  '11  all  work  together ;  it  will  be  very  jolly," 
said  Sherringham  gayly.  "  It 's  a  sacred  cause, 
the  love  of  art,  and  we  shall  be  a  happy  band. 
Dashwood 's  his  name  ?  "  he  added  in  a  moment. 
"  Mrs.  Lovick  was  n't  a  Dashwood." 

"It's  his  nom  de  theatre — Basil  Dashwood. 
Do  you  like  it  ?  "  Mrs.  Rooth  inquired. 

"  You  say  that  as  Miriam  might  do  :  her  talent 
is  catching." 

"  She 's    always    practicing  —  always    saying 


360  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

things  over  and  over,  to  seize  the  tone.  I  have 
her  voice  in  my  ears.  He  wants  her  not  to  have 
any." 

"  Not  to  have  any  ?  " 

"  Any  nom  de  theatre.  He  wants  her  to  use 
her  own ;  he  likes  it  so  much.  He  says  it  will  do 
so  well  —  you  can't  better  it." 

"  tje  's  a  capital  adviser,"  said  Sherringham, 
getting  up.  "  I  '11  come  back  to-morrow." 

"  I  won't  ask  you  to  wait  till  they  return,  they 
may  be  so  long,"  Mrs.  Rooth  replied. 

"  Will  he  come  back  with  her  ? "  Sherringham 
inquired,  smoothing  his  hat. 

"  I  hope  so,  at  this  hour.  With  my  child  in 
the  streets,  I  tremble.  We  don't  live  in  cabs,  as 
you  may  easily  suppose." 

"  Did  they  go  on  foot  ?  "  Sherringham  contin- 
ued. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  they  started  in  high  spirits." 

"  And  is  Mr.  Basil  Dashwood  acquainted  with 
Madame  Carre  ? " 

"Oh,  no,  but  he  longed  to  be  introduced  to 
her  ;  he  implored  Miriam  to  take  him.  Natu- 
rally she  wishes  to  oblige  him.  She 's  very  nice 
to  him  — if  he  can  do  anything." 

"  Quite  right ;  that 's  the  way." 

"  And  she  also  wanted  him  to  see  what  she  can 
do  for  the  great  critic,"  Mrs.  Rooth  added. 

"  The  great  critic  ?  " 

"I  mean  that  terrible  old  woman  in  the  red 
wig." 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  361 

"  That 's  what  I  should  like  to  see  too,"  said 
Sherringham. 

"  Oh,  she  has  gone  ahead  ;  she  is  pleased  with 
herself.  'Work,  work,  work,'  said  Madame 
Carre".  Well,  she  has  worked,  worked,  worked. 
That 's  what  Mr.  Dashwood  is  pleased  with  even 
more  than  with  other  things." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  other  things  ?  " 

"  Oh,  her  genius  and  her  fine  appearance." 

"  He  approves  of  her  fine  appearance  ?  I  ask 
because  you  think  he  knows  what  will  take." 

"  I  know  why  you  ask,"  said  Mrs.  Rooth. 
"  He  says  it  will  be  worth  hundreds  of  thousands 
to  her." 

"That's  the  sort  of  thing  I  like  to  hear," 
Sherringham  rejoined.  "I'll  come  in  to-mor- 
row," he  repeated. 

"  And  shall  you  mind  if  Mr.  Dashwood 's 
here?" 

"  Does  he  come  every  day  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  're  always  at  it." 

"Always  at  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  she  acts  to  him  —  every  sort  of  thing 
—  and  he  says  if  it  will  do." 

"  How  many  days  has  he  been  here,  then  ?  " 

Mrs.  Rooth  reflected.  "Oh,  I  don't  know. 
Since  he  turned  up  they  've  passed  so  quickly." 

"  So  far  from  '  minding '  it,  I  'm  eager  to  see 
him,"  Sherringham  declared  ;  "  and  I  can  imagine 
nothing  better  than  what  you  describe  —  if  he 
isn  't  an  ass." 


362  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Dear  me,  if  he  is  n't  clever  you  must  tell  us  : 
we  can't  afford  to  be  deceived  !  "  Mrs.  Rooth  ex- 
claimed, innocently  and  plaintively.  "  What  do 
we  know  —  how  can  we  judge  ?  "  she  added. 

Sherringham  hesitated,  with  his  hand  on  the 
latch.  "  Oh,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  think  of  him  !  " 


XIX. 

WHEN  he  got  into  the  street  he  looked  about 
him  for  a  cab,  but  he  was  obliged  to  walk  some 
distance  before  encountering  one.  In  this  little 
interval  he  saw  no  reason  to  modify  the  determi- 
nation he  had  formed  in  descending  the  steep 
staircase  of  the  H6tel  de  la  Garonne  ;  indeed  the 
desire  which  prompted  it  only  quickened  his  pace. 
He  had  an  hour  to  spare,  and  he  too  would  go  to 
see  Madame  Carre.  If  Miriam  and  her  compan- 
ion had  proceeded  to  the  Rue  de  Constantinople 
on  foot,  he  would  probably  reach  the  house  as 
soon  as  they.  It  was  all  quite  logical  :  he  was 
eager  to  see  Miriam  —  that  was  natural  enough  ; 
and  he  had  admitted  to  Mrs.  Rooth  that  he  was 
keen  on  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Lovick's  theatrical 
brother,  in  whom  such  effective  aid  might  per- 
haps reside.  To  catch  Miriam  really  revealing 
herself  to  the  old  actress  (since  that  was  her  er- 
rand), with  the  jump  she  believed  herself  to  have 
taken,  would  be  a  very  happy  stroke,  the  thought 
of  which  made  her  benefactor  impatient.  He 
presently  found  his  cab,  and,  as  he  bounded  in, 
bade  the  coachman  drive  fast.  He  learned  from 
Madame  Carre's  portress  that  her  illustrious  loca- 
taire  was  at  home  and  that  a  lady  and  a  gentle- 
man had  gone  up  some  time  before. 


364  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

In  the  little  antechamber,  after  he  was  ad- 
mitted,  he  heard  a  high  voice  issue  from  the 
salon,  and,  stopping  a  moment  to  listen,  perceived 
that  Miriam  was  already  launched  in  a  recitation. 
He  was  able  to  make  out  the  words,  all  the  more 
that  before  he  could  prevent  the  movement  the 
maid-servant  who  had  let  him  in  had  already 
opened  the  door  of  the  room  (one  of  the  wings  of 
it,  there  being,  as  in  most  French  doors,  two 
pieces),  before  which,  within,  a  heavy  curtain  was 
suspended.  Miriam  was  in  the  act  of  rolling  out 
some  speech  from  the  English  poetic  drama  — 

"  For  I  am  sick  and  capable  of  fears, 
Oppressed  with  wrongs  and  therefore  full  of  fears." 

He  recognized  one  of  the  great  tirades  of  Shake- 
speare's Constance,  and  saw  she  had  just  begun 
the  magnificent  scene  at  the  beginning  of  the 
third  act  of  King  John,  in  which  the  passionate, 
injured  mother  and  widow  sweeps  in  wild  organ- 
tones  up  and  down  the  scale  of  her  irony  and 
wrath.  The  curtain  concealed  him  and  he  lurked 
there  for  three  minutes  after  he  had  motioned  to 
thefemme  de  chambre  to  retire  on  tiptoe.  The 
trio  in  the  salon,  absorbed  in  the  performance, 
had  apparently  not  heard  his  entrance  or  the 
opening  of  the  door,  which  was  covered  by  the 
girl's  splendid  declamation.  Sherringham  lis- 
tened intently,  he  was  so  arrested  by  the  spirit 
with  which  she  attacked  her  formidable  verses. 
He  had  needed  to  hear  her  utter  but  half  a  dozen 
of  them  to  comprehend  the  long  stride  she  had 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  365 

taken  in  his  absence ;  they  told  him  that  she  had 
leaped  into  possession  of  her  means.  He  re- 
mained where  he  was  till  she  arrived  at  — 

"  Then  speak  again  ;  not  all  thy  former  tale, 
But  this  one  word,  whether  thy  tale  be  true." 

This  apostrophe,  being  briefly  responded  to  in 
another  voice,  gave  him  time  quickly  to  raise  the 
curtain  and  show  himself,  passing  into  the  room 
with  a  "  Go  on,  go  on  ! "  and  a  gesture  earnestly 
deprecating  a  stop. 

Miriam,  in  the  full  swing  of  her  part,  paused 
but  for  an  instant  and  let  herself  ring  out  again, 
while  Peter  sank  into  the  nearest  chair  and  she 
fixed  him  with  her  illumined  eyes,  or  rather  with 
those  of  the  raving  Constance.  Madame  Carre, 
buried  in  a  chair,  kissed  her  hand  to  him,  and  a 
young  man  who  stood  near  the  girl,  giving  her 
the  cue,  stared  at  him  over  the  top  of  a  little 
book.  "  Admirable  —  magnificent ;  go  on,"  Sher- 
ringham  repeated — "go  on  to  the  end  of  the 
scene  —  do  it  all !  "  Miriam  flushed  a  little,  but 
he  immediately  discovered  that  she  had  no  per- 
sonal emotion  in  seeing  him  again  ;  the  cold  pas- 
sion of  art  had  perched  on  her  banner  and  she 
listened  to  herself  with  an  ear  as  vigilant  as  if 
she  had  been  a  Paganini  drawing  a  fiddle-bow. 
This  effect  deepened  as  she  went  on,  rising  and 
rising  to  the  great  occasion,  moving  with  extraor- 
dinary ease  and  in  the  largest,  clearest  style  on 
the  dizzy  ridge  of  her  idea.  That  she  had  an 
idea  was  visible  enough,  and  that  the  whole  thing 


366  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

was  very  different  from  all  that  Sherringham  had 
hitherto  heard  her  attempt.  It  belonged  quite  to 
another  class  of  effort ;  she  seemed  now  like  the 
finished  statue,  lifted  from  the  ground  to  its  ped- 
estal. It  was  as  if  the  sun  of  her  talent  had 
risen  above  the  hills  and  she  knew  that  she  was 
moving,  that  she  would  always  move,  in  its  guid- 
ing light.  This  conviction  was  the  one  artless 
thing  that  glimmered,  like  a  young  joy,  through 
the  tragic  mask  of  Constance,  and  Sherringham's 
heart  beat  faster  as  he  caught  it  in  her  face.  It 
only  made  her  appear  more  intelligent ;  and  yet 
there  had  been  a  time  when  he  had  thought  her 
stupid  !  Intelligent  was  the  whole  spirit  in  which 
she  carried  the  scene,  making  him  cry  to  himself, 
from  point  to  point,  "How  she  feels  it  —  how 
she  sees  it  —  how  she  creates  it !  " 

He  looked,  at  moments,  at  Madame  Carre",  and 
perceived  that  she  had  an  open  book  in  her  lap, 
apparently  a  French  prose  version,  brought  by 
her  visitors,  of  the  play  ;  but  she  never  either 
glanced  at  him  or  at  the  volume  :  she  only  sat 
screwing  into  the  girl  her  hard  bright  eyes,  pol- 
ished by  experience  like  fine  old  brasses.  The 
young  man  uttering  the  lines  of  the  other  speak- 
ers was  attentive  in  another  degree  ;  he  followed 
Miriam,  in  his  own  copy  of  the  play,  to  be  sure 
not  to  miss  the  cue ;  but  he  was  elated  and  ex- 
pressive, was  evidently  even  surprised  ;  he  col- 
ored and  smiled,  and  when  he  extended  his  hand 
to  assist  Constance  to  rise,  after  Miriam,  acting 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  367 

out  her  text,  had  seated  herself  grandly  on  "  the 
huge,  firm  earth,"  he  bowed  over  her  as  obse- 
quiously as  if  she  had  been  his  veritable  sover- 
eign. He  was  a  very  good  looking  young  man, 
tall,  well  proportioned,  straight-featured  and  fair, 
of  whom,  manifestly,  the  first  thing  to  be  said,  on 
any  occasion,  was  that  he  looked  remarkably  like 
a  gentleman.  He  carried  this  appearance,  which 
proved  inveterate  and  importunate,  to  a  point 
that  was  almost  a  negation  of  its  spirit ;  that  is 
it  might  have  been  a  question  whether  it  could 
be  in  good  taste  to  wear  any  character,  even  that 
particular  one,  so  much  on  one's  sleeve.  It  was 
literally  on  his  sleeve  that  this  young  man  partly 
wore  his  own ;  for  it  resided  considerably  in  his 
attire,  and  in  especial  in  a  certain  close-fitting 
dark  blue  frock-coat  (a  miracle  of  a  fit),  which 
moulded  his  young  form  just  enough,  and  not  too 
much,  and  constituted  (as  Sherringham  was  des- 
tined to  perceive  later)  his  perpetual  uniform  or 
badge.  It  was  not  till  later  that  Sherringham 
began  to  feel  exasperated  by  Basil  Dashwood's 
"  type  "  (the  young  stranger  was  of  course  Basil 
Dashwood),  and  even  by  his  blue  frock-coat,  the 
recurrent,  unvarying,  imperturbable  "  good  form  " 
of  his  aspect.  This  unprofessional  air  ended  by 
striking  the  observer  as  the  profession  that  he 
had  adopted,  and  was  indeed  (so  far  as  had  as  yet 
been  indicated)  his  theatrical  capital,  his  main 
qualification  for  the  stage. 

The  powerful,  ample  manner  in  which  Miriam 


368  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

handled  her  scene  produced  its  full  impression, 
the  art  with  which  she  surmounted  its  difficulties, 
the  liberality  with  which  she  met  its  great  de- 
mand upon  the  voice,  and  the  variety  of  expres- 
sion that  she  threw  into  a  torrent  of  objurgation. 
It  was  a  real  composition,  studded  with  passages 
that  called  a  suppressed  "  Bravo  ! "  to  the  lips 
and  seeming  to  show  that  a  talent  capable  of  such 
an  exhibition  was  capable  of  anything. 

"  But  thou  art  fair,  and  at  thy  birth,  dear  boy, 
Nature  and  Fortune  join'd  to  make  thee  great : 
Of  Nature's  gifts  thou  mayst  with  lilies  boast, 
And  with  the  half-blown  rose." 

As  Miriam  turned  to  her  imagined  child  with 
this  exquisite  apostrophe  (she  addressed  Mr. 
Dashwood  as  if  he  were  playing  Arthur,  and  he 
lowered  his  book,  dropped  his  head  and  his  eyes 
and  looked  handsome  and  ingenuous),  she  opened 
at  a  stroke,  to  Sherringham's  vision,  a  prospect 
that  they  would  yet  see  her  express  tenderness 
better  even  than  anything  else.  Her  voice  was 
enchanting  in  these  lines,  and  the  beauty  of  her 
performance  was  that  while  she  uttered  the  full 
fury  of  the  part  she  missed  none  of  its  poetry. 

"  Where  did  she  get  hold  of  that  —  where  did 
she  get  hold  of  that  ? "  Sherringham  wondered 
while  his  whole  sense  vibrated.  "  She  had  n't 
got  hold  of  it  when  I  went  away."  tAnd  the  as- 
surance flowed  over  him  again  that  she  had  found 
the  key  to  her  box  of  treasures.  In  the  summer, 
during  their  weeks  of  frequent  meeting,  she  had 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  369 

only  fumbled  with  the  lock.  One  October  day, 
while  he  was  away,  the  key  had  slipped  in,  had 
fitted,  or  her  finger  at  last  had  touched  the 
right  spring,  and  the  capricious  casket  had  flown 
open. 

It  was  during  the  present  solemnity  that  Sher- 
ringham,  excited  by  the  way  she  came  out  and 
with  a  hundred  startled  ideas  about  her  wheeling 
through  his  mind,  was  for  the  first  time  and  most 
vividly  visited  by  a  perception  that  ended  by 
becoming  frequent  with  him  —  that  of  the  per- 
fect presence  of  mind,  unconfused,  unhurried  by 
emotion,  that  any  artistic  performance  requires 
and  that  all,  whatever  the  instrument,  require  in 
exactly  the  same  degree :  the  application,  in 
other  words,  clear  and  calculated,  crystal-firm  as 
it  were,  of  the  idea  conceived  in  the  glow  of  ex- 
perience, of  suffering,  of  joy.  Sherringham  after- 
wards often  talked  of  this  with  Miriam,  who, 
however,  was  not  able  to  present  him  with  a  neat 
theory  of  the  subject.  She  had  no  knowledge 
that  it  was  publicly  discussed;  she  was  only, 
practically,  on  the  side  of  those  who  hold  that  at 
the  moment  of  production  the  artist  cannot  have 
his  wits  too  much  about  him.  When  Peter  told 
her  there  were  people  who  maintained  that  in 
such  a  crisis  he  must  lose  himself  in  the  flurry, 
she  stared  with  surprise  and  then  broke  out, 
"Ah,  the  idiots  ! "  She  eventually  became,  in  her 
judgments,  in  impatience  and  the  expression  of 
contempt,  very  free  and  absolutely  irreverent. 


370  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  What  a  splendid  scolding !  "  Sherringham  ex- 
claimed when,  on  the  entrance  of  the  Pope's  leg- 
ate, her  companion  closed  the  book  upon  the 
scene.  Peter  pressed  his  lips  to  Madame  Carre's 
finger-tips ;  the  old  actress  got  up  and  held  out 
her  arms  to  Miriam.  The  girl  never  took  her 
eyes  off  Sherringham  while  she  passed  into  Ma- 
dame Carre's  embrace  and  remained  there.  They 
were  full  of  their  usual  sombre  fire,  and  it  was 
always  the  case  that  they  expressed  too  much 
anything  that  they  expressed  at  all ;  but  they 
were  not  defiant  nor  even  triumphant  now  —  they 
were  only  deeply  explicative ;  they  seemed  to 
say,  "That's  the  sort  of  thing  I  meant;  that's 
what  I  had  in  mind  when  I  asked  you  to  try  to 
do  something  for  me."  Madame  Carre  folded 
her  pupil  to  her  bosom,  holding  her  there  as  the 
old  marquise  in  a  comtdie  de  mceurs  might,  in  the 
last  scene,  have  held  her  god-daughter  the  in- 
gtnue. 

"  Have  you  got  me  an  engagement  ? "  Miriam 
asked  of  Sherringham.  "  Yes,  he  has  done  some- 
thing splendid  for  me,"  she  went  on  to  Madame 
Carre,  resting  her  hand  caressingly  on  one  of  the 
actress's  while  the  old  woman  discoursed  with 
Mr.  Dashwood,  who  was  telling  her,  in  very 
pretty  French,  that  he  was  tremendously  excited 
about  Miss  Rooth.  Madame  Carr6  looked  at  him 
as  if  she  wondered  how  he  appeared  when  he  was 
calm  and  how,  as  a  dramatic  artist,  he  expressed 
that  condition. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  3/1 

"Yes,  yes,  something  splendid,  for  a  begin- 
ning," Sherringham  answered,  radiantly,  reck- 
lessly ;  feeling  now  only  that  he  would  say  any- 
thing, do  anything,  to  please  her.  He  spent,  on 
the  spot,  in  imagination,  his  last  penny. 

"  It 's  such  a  pity  you  could  n't  follow  it ;  you 
would  have  liked  it  so  much  better,"  Mr.  Dash- 
wood  observed  to  his  hostess. 

"  Could  n't  follow  it  ?  Do  you  take  me  for 
une  sotte  ?  "  the  celebrated  artist  cried.  "  I  sus- 
pect I  followed  it  de  plus  prh  que  vous,  mon- 
sieur!  " 

"  Ah,  you  see  the  language  is  so  awfully  fine," 
Basil  Dashwood  replied,  looking  at  his  shoes. 

"  The  language  ?  Why,  she  rails  like  a  fish- 
wife. Is  that  what  you  call  language  ?  Ours  is 
another  business." 

"  If  you  understood  —  if  you  understood  you 
would  see  the  greatness  of  it,"  Miriam  declared. 
And  then,  in  another  tone  :  "  Such  delicious  ex- 
pressions ! " 

"  On  dit  que  c'est  tres-fort.  But  who  can  tell  if 
you  really  say  it  ?  "  Madame  Carre"  demanded. 

"  Ah,  par  exemple,  I  can  !  "  Sherringham  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Oh,  you  — you  're  a  Frenchman." 

"  Could  n't  he  tell  if  he  were  not  ? "  asked 
Basil  Dashwood. 

The  old  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  He 
would  n't  know." 

"  That 's  flattering  to  me," 


3/2  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"Oh,  you  —  don't  you  pretend  to  complain," 
Madame  Carr6  said.  "  I  prefer  our  imprecations 
—  those  of  Camille,"  she  went  on.  "  They  have 
the  beauty  des plus  belles  choses." 

"  I  can  say  them  too,"  Miriam  broke  in. 

"  Insolente  !  "  smiled  Madame  Carre.  "  Ca- 
mille does  n't  squat  down  on  the  floor  in  the 
middle  of  them." 

"  For  grief  is  proud  and  makes  his  owner  stoop. 
To  me  and  to  the  state  of  my  great  grief 
Let  kings  assemble," 

Miriam  quickly  declaimed.  "Ah,  if  you  don't 
feel  the  way  she  makes  a  throne  of  it !  " 

"  It 's  really  tremendously  fine,  chere  madame" 
Sherringham  said.  "  There 's  nothing  like  it." 

"Vous  £tes  insupportables,"  the  old  woman  an- 
swered. "  Stay  with  us.  I  '11  teach  you  Phedre." 

"  Ah,  Phaedra  —  Phsedra !  "  Basil  Dashwood 
vaguely  ejaculated,  looking  more  gentlemanly 
than  ever. 

"  You  have  learned  all  I  have  taught  you,  but 
where  the  devil  have  you  learned  what  I  have  n't 
taught  you  ? "  Madame  Carre  went  on. 

"  I  Ve  worked  —  I  have  ;  you  'd  call  it  work  — 
all  through  the  bright,  late  summer,  all  through 
the  hot,  dull,  empty  days.  I  've  battered  down 
the  door  —  I  did  hear  it  crash  one  day.  But  I  'm 
not  so  very  good  yet ;  I  'm  only  in  the  right  di- 
rection." 

"  Malicieuse  !  "  murmured  Madame  Carre. 

"Oh,  I  can  beat  that,"  the  girl  went  on. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  373 

"  Did  you  wake  up  one  morning  and  find  you 
had  grown  a  pair  of  wings  ?  "  Sherringham  asked. 
"  Because  that 's  what  the  difference  amounts  to 
—  you  really  soar.  Moreover,  you  're  an  angel," 
he  added,  charmed  with  her  unexpectedness,  the 
good-nature  of  her  forbearance  to  reproach  him 
for  not  having  written  to  her.  And  it  seemed  to 
him,  privately,  that  she  was  angelic  when,  in  an- 
swer to  this,  she  said,  ever  so  blandly  : 

"  You  know  you  read  King  John  with  me  be- 
fore you  went  away.  I  thought  over  immensely 
what  you  said.  I  did  n't  understand  it  much  at 
the  time  —  I  was  so  stupid.  But  it  all  came  to 
me  later." 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  yourself,"  Sherringham 
answered. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  do.  What  do  you  take  me 
for  ?  I  did  n't  miss  a  vibration  of  my  voice,  a 
fold  of  my  robe." 

"I  didn't  see  you  looking,"  Sherringham  re- 
turned. 

"  No  one  ever  will.  Do  you  think  I  would 
show  it  ?  " 

"Ars  celare  artem,"  Basil  Dashwood  jocosely 
dropped. 

"You  must  first  have  the  art  to  hide,"  said 
Sherringham,  wondering  a  little  why  Miriam 
did  n't  introduce  her  young  friend  to  him.  She 
was,  however,  both  then  and  later,  perfectly  neg- 
lectful of  such  cares,  never  thinking  or  heeding 
how  other  people  got  on  together.  When  she 


374  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

found  they  did  n't  get  on  she  laughed  at  them  : 
that  was  the  nearest  she  came  to  arranging  for 
them.  Sherringham  observed,  from  the  moment 
she  felt  her  strength,  the  immense  increase  of 
her  good-humored  inattention  to  detail  —  all  de- 
tail save  that  of  her  work,  to  which  she  was  ready 
to  sacrifice  holocausts  of  feelings,  when  the  feel- 
ings were  other  people's.  This  conferred  on  her  a 
kind  of  profanity,  an  absence  of  ceremony  in  her 
social  relations  which  was  both  amusing,  because 
it  suggested  that  she  would  take  what  she  gave, 
and  formidable,  because  it  was  inconvenient  and 
you  might  not  care  to  give  what  she  would  take. 

"  If  you  have  n't  got  any  art,  it 's  not  quite  the 
same  as  if  you  did  n't  hide  it,  is  it  ?  "  asked  Basil 
Dashwood. 

"  That 's  right  —  say  one  of  your  clever  things  ! " 
murmured  Miriam,  sweetly,  to  the  young  man. 

"You're  always  acting,"  he  answered,  in  Eng- 
lish, with  a  laugh,  while  Sherringham  remained 
struck  with  his  expressing  just  what  he  himself 
had  felt  weeks  before. 

"  And  when  you  have  shown  them  your  fish- 
wife, to  your  public  de-la-bas,  what  will  you  do 
next?  "  asked  Madame  Carre". 

"  I  '11  do  Juliet  —  I  '11  do  Cleopatra." 

"  Rather  a  big  bill,  is  n't  it  ?  "  Mr.  Dashwood 
volunteered  to  Sherringham,  in  a  friendly,  dis- 
criminating manner. 

"Constance  and  Juliet  —  take  care  you  don't 
mix  them,"  said  Sherringham. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  375 

"  I  want  to  be  various.  You  once  told  me  I 
had  a  hundred  characters,"  Miriam  replied. 

"Ah,  vous-en-etes  Id?"  cried  the  old  actress. 
"You  may  have  a  hundred  characters,  but  you 
have  only  three  plays.  I  'm  told  that 's  all  there 
are  in  English." 

Miriam  appealed  to  Sherringham.  "  What  ar- 
rangements have  you  made  ?  What  do  the  people 
want  ?  " 

"  The  people  at  the  theatre  ? " 

"  I  'm  afraid  they  don't  want  King  John,  and 
I  don't  believe  they  hunger  for  Antony  and  Cle- 
opatra," Basil  Dashwood  suggested.  "  Ships  and 
sieges  and  armies  and  pyramids,  you  know :  we 
must  n't  be  too  heavy." 

"  Oh,  I  hate  scenery  !  "  sighed  Miriam. 

"  Elle  est  superbe,"  said  Madame  Carre.  "  You 
must  put  those  pieces  on  the  stage  :  how  will  you 
do  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  we  know  how  to  get  up  a  play  in  Lon- 
don, Madame  Carre,"  Basil  Dashwood  responded, 
genially.  "They  put  money  on  it,  you  know." 

"  On  it  ?  But  what  do  they  put  in  it  ?  Who 
will  interpret  them  ?  Who  will  manage  a  style 
like  that  —  the  style  of  which  the  verses  she  just 
repeated  are  a  specimen  ?  Whom  have  you  got 
that  one  has  ever  heard  of  ? " 

"  Oh,  you  '11  hear  of  a  good  deal  when  once 
she  gets  started,"  Basil  Dashwood  contended, 
cheerfully. 

Madame  Carr6  looked  at  him  a  moment ;  then, 


376  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE, 

"  You  '11  become  very  bad,"  she  said  to  Miriam. 
"I  'm  glad  I  sha'n't  see  it." 

"  People  will  do  things  for  me  —  I  '11  make 
them,"  the  girl  declared.  "  I  '11  stir  them  up  so 
that  they'll  have  ideas." 

"  What  people,  pray  ? " 

"  Ah,  terrible  woman !  "  Sherringham  moaned, 
theatrically. 

"We  translate  your  pieces  —  there  will  be 
plenty  of  parts,"  Basil  Dash  wood  said. 

"  Why  then  go  out  of  the  door  to  come  in  at 
the  window  ?  —  especially  if  you  smash  it !  An 
English  arrangement  of  a  French  piece  is  a 
pretty  woman  with  her  back  turned." 

"  Do  you  really  want  to  keep  her  ? "  Sherring- 
ham asked  of  Madame  Carre,  as  if  he  were  think- 
ing for  a  moment  that  this  after  all  might  be  pos- 
sible. 

She  bent  her  strange  eyes  on  him.  "  No,  you 
are  all  too  queer  together  ;  we  could  n't  be  both- 
ered with  you,  and  you  're  not  worth  it." 

"  I  'm  glad  it 's  together ;  we  can  console  each 
other." 

"  If  you  only  would ;  but  you  don't  seem  to ! 
In  short,  I  don't  understand  you  —  I  give  you 
up.  But  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  the  old  woman, 
wearily,  "  for  the  theatre  is  dead  and  even  you, 
ma  toute-belle,  won't  bring  it  to  life.  Everything 
is  going  from  bad  to  worse,  and  I  don't  care  what 
becomes  of  you.  You  would  n't  understand  us 
here  and  they  won't  understand  you  there,  and 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  377 

everything  is  impossible,  and  no  one  is  a  whit 
the  wiser,  and  it 's  not  of  the  least  consequence. 
Only  when  you  raise  your  arms,  lift  them  just 
a  little  higher,"  Madame  Carre  added. 

"  My  mother  will  be  happier  cJtez  nous,"  said 
Miriam,  throwing  her  arms  straight  up,  with  a 
noble  tragic  movement. 

"  You  won't  be  in  the  least  in  the  right  path 
till  your  mother  's  in  despair." 

"  Well,  perhaps  we  can  bring  that  about  even 
in  London,"  Sherringham  suggested,  laughing. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Rooth  —  she 's  great  fun,"  Mr. 
Dashwood  dropped. 

Miriam  transferred  the  gloomy  beauty  of  her 
gaze  to  him,  as  if  she  were  practicing.  "  You 
won't  upset  her,  at  any  rate."  Then  she  stood, 
with  her  fatal  mask,  before  Madame  Carre".  "  I 
want  to  do  the  modern  too.  I  want  to  do  le 
drame,  with  realistic  effects." 

"  And  do  you  want  to  look  like  the  portico  of 
the  Madeleine  when  it 's  draped  for  a  funeral  ?  " 
her  instructress  mocked.  "  Never,  never.  I 
don't  believe  you  're  various  :  that 's  not  the  way 
I  see  you.  You  're  pure  tragedy,  with  de  grands 
effets  de  voix,  in  the  great  style,  or  you  're  noth- 
ing." 

"  Be  beautiful  —  be  only  that,"  Sherringham 
urged.  "  Be  only  what  you  can  be  so  well  — 
something  that  one  may  turn  to  for  a  glimpse  of 
perfection,  to  lift  one  out  of  all  the  vulgarities  of 
the  day." 


378  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

Thus  apostrophized,  the  girl  broke  out  with 
one  of  the  speeches  of  Racine's  Phaedra,  hushing 
her  companions  on  the  instant  "  You  '11  be  the 
English  Rachel,"  said  Basil  Dashwood  when  she 
stopped. 

"  Acting  in  French !  "  Madame  Carre"  ex- 
claimed. "  I  don't  believe  in  an  English  Rachel." 

"  I  shall  have  to  work  it  out,  what  I  shall  be," 
Miriam  responded,  with  a  rich,  pensive  effect. 

"  You  're  in  wonderfully  good  form  to-day," 
Sherringham  said  to  her  ;  his  appreciation  reveal- 
ing a  personal  subjection  which  he  was  unable 
to  conceal  from  his  companions,  much  as  he 
wished  it. 

"  I  really  mean  to  do  everything." 

"Very  well ;  after  all,  Garrick  did." 

"  Well,  I  shall  be  the  Garrick  of  my  sex." 

"  There 's  a  very  clever  author  doing  something 
for  me ;  I  should  like  you  to  see  it,"  said  Basil 
Dashwood,  addressing  himself  equally  to  Miriam 
and  to  her  diplomatic  friend. 

"  Ah,  if  you  have  very  clever  authors  !  "  And 
Madame  Carre  spun  the  sound  to  the  finest  satiric 
thread. 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  see  it,"  said  Sher- 
ringham. 

This  response  was  so  benevolent  that  Basil 
Dashwood  presently  began  :  "  May  I  ask  you  at 
what  theatre  you  have  made  arrangements  ? " 

Sherringham  looked  at  him  a  moment.  "  Come 
and  see  me  at  the  Embassy  and  I  '11  tell  you." 


THE  TRAGIC  MUSE.  379 

Then  he  added,  "  I  know  your  sister,  Mrs.  Lov- 
ick." 

"  So  I  supposed  :  that 's  why  I  took  the  liberty 
of  asking  such  a  question." 

"  It 's  no  liberty  ;  but  Mr.  Sherringham  does  n't 
appear  to  be  able  to  tell  you,"  said  Miriam. 

"  Well,  you  know,  it 's  a  very  curious  world,  all 
those  theatrical  people  over  there,"  Sherringham 
said. 

"  Ah,  don't  say  anything  against  them,  when 
I  'm  one  of  them,"  Basil  Dashwood  laughed. 

"  I  might  plead  the  absence  of  information,  as 
Miss  Rooth  has  neglected  to  make  us  acquainted." 

Miriam  smiled  :  "  I  know  you  both  so  little." 
But  she  presented  them,  with  a  great  stately  air, 
to  each  other,  and  the  two  men  shook  hands  while 
Madame  Carre  observed  them. 

"  Tiens  I  you  gentlemen  meet  here  for  the  first 
time  ?  You  do  right  to  become  friends  —  that 's 
the  best  thing.  Live  together  in  peace  and  mu- 
tual confidence.  C'est  de  beaucoup  le  plus  sage." 

"  Certainly,  for  yoke-fellows,"  said  Sherring- 
ham. 

He  began  the  next  moment  to  repeat  to  his 
new  acquaintance  some  of  the  things  he  had  been 
told  in  London  ;  but  their  hostess  stopped  him 
off,  waving  the  talk  away  with  charming  over- 
done stage  horror  and  the  young  hands  of  the 
heroines  of  Marivaux.  "  Ah,  wait  till  you  go,  for 
that !  Do  you  suppose  I  care  for  news  of  your 
mountebanks'  booths  ? " 


XX. 

As  many  people  know,  there  are  not,  in  the  fa- 
mous Theatre  Frangais,  more  than  a  dozen  good 
seats  accessible  to  ladies.  The  stalls  are  forbid- 
den them,  the  boxes  are  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
the  stage  and  the  balcony  is  a  delusion  save  for 
a  few  chairs  at  either  end  of  its  vast  horseshoe. 
But  there  are  two  excellent  baignoires  d'avant- 
scene,  which  indeed  are  by  no  means  always  to 
be  had.  It  was,  however,  into  one  of  them  that, 
immediately  after  his  return  to  Paris,  Sherring- 
ham  ushered  Mrs.  Rooth  and  her  daughter,  with 
the  further  escort  of  Basil  Dashwood.  He  had 
chosen  the  evening  of  the  reappearance  of  the 
celebrated  Mademoiselle  Voisin  (she  had  been 
enjoying  a  conge"  of  three  months),  an  actress 
whom  Miriam  had  seen  several  times  before  and 
for  whose  method  she  professed  a  high  though 
somewhat  critical  esteem.  It  was  only  for  the 
return  of  this  charming  performer  that  Sherring- 
ham  had  been  waiting  to  respond  to  Miriam's 
most  ardent  wish  —  that  of  spending  an  hour  in 
ti&&  foyer  des  artistes  of  the  great  theatre.  She 
was  the  person  whom  he  knew  best  in  the  house 
of  Moliere ;  he  could  count  upon  her  to  do  them 
the  honors,  some  night  when  she  was  in  the 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  381 

"  bill,"  and  make  the  occasion  sociable.  Miriam 
had  been  impatient  for  it  —  she  was  so  convinced 
that  her  eyes  would  be  opened  in  the  holy  of 
holies  ;  but  wishing  particularly,  as  he  did,  to 
participate  in  her  impression,  he  had  made  her 
promise  that  she  would  not  taste  of  this  experi- 
ence without  him  —  not  let  Madame  Carre,  for 
instance,  take  her  in  his  absence.  There  were 
questions  the  girl  wished  to  put  to  Mademoiselle 
Voisin  —  questions  which,  having  admired  her 
from  the  balcony,  she  felt  she  was  exactly  the 
person  to  answer.  She  was  more  "  in  it "  now, 
after  all,  than  Madame  Carre,  in  spite  of  her 
slenderer  talent :  she  was  younger,  fresher,  more 
modern  and  (Miriam  found  the  word)  less  aca- 
demic. Sherringham  perfectly  foresaw  the  day 
when  his  young  friend  would  make  indulgent  al- 
lowances for  poor  Madame  Carr6,  patronizing  her 
as  an  old  woman  of  good  intentions. 

The  play,  to-night,  was  six  months  old,  a  large, 
serious,  successful  comedy,  by  the  most  distin- 
guished of  authors,  with  a  thesis,  a  chorus,  em- 
bodied in  one  character,  a  scbie  d  faire  and  a 
part  full  of  opportunities  for  Mademoiselle  Voisin. 
There  were  things  to  be  said  about  this  artist, 
strictures  to  be  dropped  as  to  the  general  quality 
of  her  art,  and  Miriam  leaned  back  now,  making 
her  comments  as  if  they  cost  her  less  ;  but  the 
actress  had  knowledge  and  distinction  and  pa- 
thos, and  our  young  lady  repeated  several  times, 
"  How  quiet  she  is,  how  wonderfully  quiet ! 


382  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

Scarcely  anything  moves  but  her  face  and  her 
voice.  Le  geste  rare,  but  really  expressive  when 
it  comes.  I  like  that  economy  ;  it 's  the  only 
way  to  make  the  gesture  significant." 

"  I  don't  admire  the  way  she  holds  her  arms," 
Basil  Dashwood  said  :  "  like  a  demoiselle  de 
ntagasin  trying  on  a  jacket." 

"  Well,  she  holds  them,  at  any  rate.  I  dare  say 
it's  more  than  you  do  with  yours." 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  holds  them  ;  there 's  no  mistake 
about  that.  '  I  hold  them,  I  hope,  hein  ? '  she 
seems  to  say  to  all  the  house."  The  young  Eng- 
lish professional  laughed  good-humoredly,  and 
Sherringham  was  struck  with  the  pleasant  fa- 
miliarity he  had  established  with  their  brave 
companion.  He  was  knowing  and  ready  and  he 
said,  in  the  first  entracte  (they  were  waiting  for 
the  second,  to  go  behind),  amusing,  perceptive 
things.  "They  teach  them  to  be  ladylike,  and 
Voisin  is  always  trying  to  show  that.  '  See  how 
I  walk,  see  how  I  sit,  see  how  quiet  I  am  and  how 
I  have  le  geste  rare.  Now  can  you  say  I  ain't  a 
lady  ? '  She  does  it  all  as  if  she  had  a  class." 

"Well,  to-night  I  'm  her  class,"  said  Miriam. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  of  actresses,  but  oifemmes 
du  monde.  She  shows  them  how  to  act  in  so- 
ciety." 

"  You  had  better  take  a  few  lessons,"  Miriam 
retorted. 

"  You  should  see  Voisin  in  society,"  Sherring- 
ham interposed. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  383 

"  Does  she  go  into  it  ? "  Mrs.  Rooth  demanded, 
with  interest. 

Sherringham  hesitated.  "  She  receives  a  great 
many  people." 

"  Why  should  n't  they,  when  they  're  nice  ?  " 
Mrs.  Rooth  continued. 

"  When  the  people  are  nice  ? "  Miriam  asked. 

"  Now  don't  tell  me  she  's  not  what  one  would 
wish,"  said  Mrs.  Rooth  to  Sherringham. 

"  It  depends  upon  what  that  is,"  he  answered, 
smiling. 

"  What  I  should  wish  if  she  were  my  daugh- 
ter," the  old  woman  rejoined,  blandly. 

"  Ah,  wish  your  daughter  to  act  as  well  as  that 
and  you  '11  do  the  handsome  thing  for  her  !  " 

"  Well,  she  seems  to  feel  what  she  says,"  Mrs. 
Rooth  murmured,  piously. 

"  She  has  some  stiff  things  to  say.  I  mean 
about  her  past,"  Basil  Dashwood  remarked. 
"  The  past  —  the  dreadful  past  —  on  the  stage !  " 

"  Wait  till  the  end,  to  see  how  she  comes  out. 
We  must  all  be  merciful ! "  sighed  Mrs.  Rooth. 

"  We  've  seen  it  before  ;  you  know  what  hap- 
pens," Miriam  observed  to  her  mother. 

"  I  've  seen  so  many,  I  get  them  mixed." 

"  Yes,  they  're  all  in  queer  predicaments.  Poor 
old  mother  —  what  we  show  you  !  "  laughed  the 
girl. 

"  Ah,  it  will  be  what  you  show  me,  something 
noble  and  wise !  " 

"  I  want  to  do  this  ;  it 's  a  magnificent  part," 
said  Miriam. 


384  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  You  could  n't  put  it  on  in  London  ;  they 
would  n't  swallow  it,"  Basil  Dashwood  declared. 

"  Are  n't  there  things  they  do  there,  to  get 
over  the  difficulties  ? " 

"  You  can't  get  over  what  she  did,"  the  young 
man  replied. 

"  Yes,  we  must  pay,  we  must  expiate  !  "  Mrs. 
Rooth  moaned,  as  the  curtain  rose  again. 

When  the  second  act  was  over  our  friends 
passed  out  of  their  baignoire  into  those  corridors 
of  tribulation  where  the  bristling  ouvreuse,  like  a 
pawnbroker  driving  a  roaring  trade,  mounts  guard 
upon  piles  of  heterogeneous  clothing,  and,  gain- 
ing the  top  of  the  fine  staircase  which  forms  the 
state  entrance  and  connects  the  statued  vestibule 
of  the  basement  with  the  grand  tier  of  boxes, 
opened  an  ambiguous  door,  composed  of  little 
mirrors,  and  found  themselves  in  the  society  of 
the  initiated.  The  janitors  were  courteous  folk 
who  greeted  Sherringham  as  an  acquaintance, 
and  he  had  no  difficulty  in  marshaling  his  little 
troop  toward  the  foyer.  They  traversed  a  low, 
curving  lobby,  hung  with  pictures  and  furnished 
with  velvet-covered  benches,  where  several  un- 
recognized persons,  of  both  sexes,  looked  at  them 
without  hostility,  and  arrived  at  an  opening,  on 
the  right,  from  which,  by  a  short  flight  of  steps, 
there  was  a  descent  to  one  of  the  wings  of  the 
stage.  Here  Miriam  paused,  in  silent  excitement, 
like  a  young  warrior  arrested  by  a  glimpse  of  the 
battlefield.  Her  vision  was  carried  off,  through 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  38$ 

a  lane  of  light,  to  the  point  of  vantage  from 
which  the  actor  held  the  house  ;  but  there  was  a 
hushed  guard  over  the  place,  and  curiosity  could 
only  glance  and  pass. 

Then  she  came  with  her  companions  to  a  sort 
of  parlor  with  a  polished  floor,  not  large  and 
rather  vacant,  where  her  attention  flew  delight- 
edly to  a  coat-tree,  in  a  corner,  from  which  three 
or  four  dresses  were  suspended  —  dresses  that 
she  immediately  perceived  to  be  costumes  in  that 
night's  play  —  accompanied  by  a  saucer  of  some- 
thing and  a  much-worn  powder-puff  casually  left 
upon  a  sofa.  This  was  a  familiar  note  in  a  gen- 
eral impression  (it  had  begun  at  the  threshold)  of 
high  decorum  —  a  sense  of  majesty  in  the  place. 
Miriam  rushed  at  the  powder-puff  (there  was  no 
one  in  the  room),  snatched  it  up  and  gazed  at  it 
with  droll  veneration,  then  stood  rapt  a  moment 
before  the  charming  petticoats  ("  That 's  Dunoy- 
er's  first  underskirt,"  she  said  to  her  mother), 
while  Sherringham  explained  that  in  this  apart- 
ment an  actress  traditionally  changed  her  gown, 
when  the  transaction  was  simple  enough,  to  save 
the  long  ascent  to  her  loge.  He  felt  like  a  cice- 
rone showing  a  church  to  a  party  of  provincials  ; 
and  indeed  there  was  a  grave  hospitality  in  the 
air,  mingled  with  something  academic  and  impor- 
tant, the  tone  of  an  institution,  a  temple,  which 
made  them  all,  out  of  respect  and  delicacy,  hold 
their  breath  a  little  and  tread  the  shining  floors 
with  discretion. 


386  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

These  precautions  increased  (Mrs.  Rooth  crept 
in  like  a  friendly  but  undomesticated  cat),  after 
they  entered  the  foyer  itself,  a  square  spacious 
saloon,  covered  with  pictures  and  relics  and 
draped  in  official  green  velvet,  where  the  genius 
loci  holds  a  reception  every  night  in  the  year. 
The  effect  was  freshly  charming  to  Sherringham  ; 
he  was  fond  of  the  place,  always  saw  it  again 
with  pleasure,  enjoyed  its  honorable  look  and  the 
way,  among  the  portraits  and  scrolls,  the  records 
of  a  splendid  history,  the  green  velvet  and  the 
waxed  floors,  the  genius  loci  seemed  to  be  "  at 
home"  in  the  quiet  lamplight.  At  the  end  of 
the  room,  in  an  ample  chimney,  blazed  a  fire  of 
logs.  Miriam  said  nothing ;  they  looked  about, 
noting  that  most  of  the  portraits  and  pictures 
were  "old-fashioned,"  and  Basil  Dashwood  ex- 
pressed disappointment  at  the  absence  of  all  the 
people  they  wanted  most  to  see.  Three  or  four 
gentlemen,  in  evening  dress,  circulated  slowly, 
looking,  like  themselves,  at  the  pictures,  and  an- 
other gentleman  stood  before  a  lady,  with  whom 
he  was  in  conversation,  seated  against  the  wall. 
The  foyer,  in  these  conditions,  resembled  a  ball- 
room, cleared  for  the  dance,  before  the  guests  or 
the  music  had  arrived. 

"  Oh,  it 's  enough  to  see  this ;  it  makes  my 
heart  beat,"  said  Miriam.  "  It 's  full  of  the  van- 
ished past,  it  makes  me  cry.  I  feel  them  here, 
the  great  artists  I  shall  never  see.  Think  of 
Rachel  (look  at  her  grand  portrait  there!)  and 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  387 

how  she  stood  on  these  very  boards  and  trailed 
over  them  the  robes  of  Hermione  and  Phedre  !  " 
The  girl  broke  out  theatrically,  as  on  the  spot 
was  right,  not  a  bit  afraid  of  her  voice  as  soon  as 
it  rolled  through  the  room  ;  appealing  to  her  com- 
panions as  they  stood  under  the  chandelier  and 
making  the  other  persons  present,  who  had  al- 
ready given  her  some  attention,  turn  round  to 
stare  at  so  unusual  a  specimen  of  the  English 
miss.  She  laughed,  musically,  when  she  noticed 
this,  and  her  mother,  scandalized,  begged  her  to 
lower  her  tone.  "It's  all  right.  I  produce  an 
effect,"  said  Miriam  :  "  it  sha'n't  be  said  that  I 
too  have  n't  had  my  little  success  in  the  maison 
de  Moliere."  And  Sherringham  repeated  that  it 
was  all  right  —  the  place  was  familiar  with  mirth 
and  passion,  there  was  often  wonderful  talk  there, 
and  it  was  only  the  setting  that  was  still  and  sol- 
emn. It  happened  that  this  evening  —  there 
was  no  knowing  in  advance  —  the  scene  was  not 
characteristically  brilliant ;  but  to  confirm  his  as- 
sertion, at  the  moment  he  spoke,  Mademoiselle 
Dunpyer,  who  was  also  in  the  play,  came  into  the 
room  attended  by  a  pair  of  gentlemen. 

She  was  the  celebrated,  the  perpetual,  the  ne- 
cessary ingenue,  who  with  all  her  talent  could  not 
have  represented  a  woman  of  her  actual  age. 
She  had  the  gliding,  hopping  movement  of  a 
small  bird,  the  same  air  of  having  nothing  to  do 
with  time,  and  the  clear,  sure,  piercing  note,  a 
miracle  of  exact  vocalization.  She  chaffed  her 


388  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

companions,  she  chaffed  the  room  ;  she  seemed 
to  be  a  very  clever  little  girl  trying  to  personate 
a  more  innocent  big  one.  She  scattered  her  ami- 
ability about  (showing  Miriam  how  much  the 
children  of  Moliere  took  their  ease),  and  it  quickly 
placed  her  in  the  friendliest  communication  with 
Peter  Sherringham,  who  already  enjoyed  her  ac- 
quaintance and  who  now  extended  it  to  his  com- 
panions, and  in  particular  to  the  young  lady  sur 
le  point  cCentrer  au  thtdtre. 

"  You  deserve  a  happier  lot,"  said  the  actress, 
looking  up  at  Miriam  brightly,  as  if  to  a  great 
height,  and  taking  her  in  ;  upon  which  Sherring- 
ham left  them  together  a  little  and  led  Mrs. 
Rooth  and  young  Dashwood  to  consider  further 
some  of  the  pictures. 

"  Most  delightful,  most  curious,"  the  old  woman 
murmured,  about  everything ;  while  Basil  Dash- 
wood  exclaimed,  in  the  presence  of  most  of  the 
portraits  :  "  But  their  ugliness  —  their  ugliness  : 
did  you  ever  see  such  a  collection  of  hideous 
people?  And  those  who  were  supposed  to  be 
good-looking  —  the  beauties  of  the  past  —  they 
are  worse  than  the  others.  Ah,  you  may  say 
what  you  will,  nous  sommes  mieux  que  $a ! " 
Sherringham  suspected  him  of  irritation,  of  not 
liking  the  theatre  of  the  great  rival  nation  to  be 
thrust  down  his  throat.  They  returned  to  Mir- 
iam and  Mademoiselle  Dunoyer,  and  Sherring- 
ham asked  the  actress  a  question  about  one  of 
the  portraits,  to  which  there  was  no  name  at- 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  389 

tached.  She  replied,  like  a  child  who  had  only 
played  about  the  room,  that  she  was  toute  honteuse 
not  to  be  able  to  tell  him  the  original :  she  had 
forgotten,  she  had  never  asked  —  "  Vous  allez  me 
trouver  bien  le"gere."  She  appealed  to  the  other 
persons  present,  who  formed  a  gallery  for  her, 
and  laughed  in  delightful  ripples  at  their  sugges- 
tions, which  she  covered  with  ridicule.  She  be- 
stirred herself  ;  she  declared  she  would  ascertain, 
she  should  not  be  happy  till  she  did,  and  swam 
out  of  the  room,  with  the  prettiest  paddles,  to 
obtain  the  information,  leaving  behind  her  a  per- 
fume of  delicate  kindness  and  gayety.  She 
seemed  above  all  things  obliging,  and  Sherring- 
ham  said  that  she  was  almost  as  natural  off  the 
stage  as  on.  She  did  n't  come  back. 


XXL 

WHETHER  Sherringham  had  prearranged  it  is 
more  than  I  can  say,  but  Mademoiselle  Voisin 
delayed  so  long  to  show  herself  that  Mrs.  Rooth, 
who  wished  to  see  the  rest  of  the  play,  though 
she  had  sat  it  out  on  another  occasion,  expressed 
a  returning  relish  for  her  corner  of  the  baignoire 
and  gave  her  conductor  the  best  pretext  he  could 
have  desired  for  asking  Basil  Dashwood  to  be  so 
good  as  to  escort  her  back.  When  the  young 
actor,  of  whose  personal  preference  Sherringham 
was  quite  aware,  had  led  Mrs.  Rooth  away  with 
an  absence  of  moroseness  which  showed  that  his 
striking  analogy  with  a  gentleman  was  not  kept 
for  the  footlights,  the  two  others  sat  on  a  divan 
in  the  part  of  the  room  furthest  from  the  entrance, 
so  that  it  gave  them  a  degree  of  privacy,  and  Mir- 
iam watched  the  coming  and  going  of  their  fel- 
low-visitors and  the  indefinite  people,  attached  to 
the  theatre,  hanging  about,  while  her  companion 
gave  a  name  to  some  of  the  figures,  Parisian 
celebrities. 

"  Fancy  poor  Dashwood,  cooped  up  there  with 
mamma !  "  the  girl  exclaimed,  whimsically. 

"You  are  awfully  cruel  to  him  ;  but  that 's  of 
course,"  said  Sherringham. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  391 

"  It  seems  to  me  I  'm  as  kind  as  you  ;  you  sent 
him  off." 

"  That  was  for  your  mother  ;  she  was  tired." 

"  Oh,  gammon !  And  why,  if  I  were  cruel, 
should  it  be  of  course  ? " 

"  Because  you  must  destroy  and  torment  and 
consume  —  that 's  your  nature.  But  you  can't 
help  your  type,  can  you  ?  " 

"  My  type  ? "  the  girl  repeated. 

"  It 's  bad,  perverse,  dangerous.  It 's  essen- 
tially insolent." 

"  And  pray  what  is  yours,  when  you  talk  like 
that  ?  Would  you  say  such  things  if  you  did  n't 
know  the  depths  of  my  good-nature  ?  " 

"Your  good-nature  all  comes  back  to  that," 
said  Sherringham.  "  It 's  an  abyss  of  ruin  — for 
others.  You  have  no  respect.  I  'm  speaking  of 
the  artistic  character,  in  the  direction  and  in  the 
plenitude  in  which  you  have  it.  It 's  unscrupu- 
lous, nervous,  capricious,  wanton." 

"  I  don't  know  about  respect  ;  one  can  be 
good,"  Miriam  reasoned. 

"  It  does  n't  matter,  so  long  as  one  is  power- 
ful," answered  Sherringham.  "  We  can't  have 
everything,  and  surely  we  ought  to  understand 
that  we  must  pay  for  things.  A  splendid  organi- 
zation for  a  special  end,  like  yours,  is  so  rare  and 
rich  and  fine  that  we  ought  n't  to  grudge  it  its 
conditions." 

"  What  do  you  call  its  conditions  ? "  Miriam 
demanded,  turning  and  looking  at  him. 


392  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Oh,  the  need  to  take  its  ease,  to  take  up 
space,  to  make  itself  at  home  in  the  world,  to 
square  its  elbows  and  knock  others  about.  That 's 
large  and  free ;  it 's  the  good-nature  you  speak 
of.  You  must  forage  and  ravage  and  leave  a 
track  behind  you  ;  you  must  live  upon  the  coun- 
try you  traverse.  And  you  give  such  delight 
that,  after  all,  you  are  welcome  —  you  are  in- 
finitely welcome  ! " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  only  care 
for  the  idea,"  Miriam  said. 

"  That 's  exactly  what  I  pretend  ;  and  we  must 
all  help  you  to  it.  You  use  us,  you  push  us 
about,  you  break  us  up.  We  are  your  tables  and 
chairs,  the  simple  furniture  of  your  life." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  by  '  we  '  ?  " 

Sherringham  gave  a  laugh.  "  Oh,  don't  be 
afraid  —  there  will  be  plenty  of  others." 

Miriam  made  no  rejoinder  to  this,  but  after  a 
moment  she  broke  out  again  :  "  Poor  Dashwood, 
immured  with  mamma  —  he 's  like  a  lame  chair 
that  one  has  put  into  the  corner." 

"  Don't  break  him  up  before  he  has  served. 
I  really  believe  that  something  will  come  out  of 
him,"  her  companion  went  on.  "  However,  you  '11 
break  me  up  first,"  he  added,  "  and  him  probably 
never  at  all." 

"And  why  shall  I  honor  you  so  much  more?" 

"  Because  I  'm  a  better  article,  and  you  '11  feel 
that." 

"  You  have  the  superiority  of  modesty  —  I 
see." 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  393 

"  I  'm  better  than  a  young  mountebank  —  I  've 
vanity  enough  to  say  that." 

She  turned  upon  him  with  a  flush  in  her  cheek 
and  a  splendid  dramatic  face.  "  How  you  hate 
us  !  Yes,  at  bottom,  below  your  little  taste,  you 
hate  us  !  "  she  repeated. 

He  colored  too,  met  her  eyes,  looked  into  them 
a  minute,  seemed  to  accept  the  imputation,  and 
then  said,  quickly,  "  Give  it  up  :  come  away  with 
me." 

"  Come  away  with  you  ?  " 

"  Leave  this  place  ;  give  it  up." 

"  You  brought  me  here,  you  insisted  it  should 
be  only  you,  and  now  you  must  stay,"  she  de- 
clared, with  a  head-shake  and  a  laugh.  "You 
should  know  what  you  want,  dear  Mr.  Sherring- 
ham." 

"I  do  —  I  know  now.  Come  away,  before  she 
comes." 

"  Before  she  comes  ? " 

"  She  's  success  —  this  wonderful  Voisin  — 
she  's  triumph,  she  's  full  accomplishment :  the 
hard,  brilliant  realization  of  what  I  want  to  avert 
for  you."  Miriam  looked  at  him  in  silence,  the 
angry  light  still  in  her  face,  and  he  repeated  : 
"  Give  it  up  —  give  it  up." 

Her  eyes  softened  after  a  moment ;  she  smiled, 
and  then  she  said  :  "  Yes,  you  're  better  than 
poor  Dashwood." 

"  Give  it  up,  and  we  '11  live  for  ourselves,  in  our- 
selves, in  something  that  can  have  a  sanctity." 


394  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"All  the  same,  you  do  hate  us,"  the  girl  went 
on. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  conceited,  but  I  mean 
that  I  'm  sufficiently  fine  and  complicated  to 
tempt  you.  I'm  an  expensive  modern  watch, 
with  a  wonderful  escapement  —  therefore  you  '11 
smash  me  if  you  can." 

"Never — never!"  said  the  girl,  getting  up. 
"  You  tell  me  the  hour  too  well."  She  quitted 
her  companion  and  stood  looking  at  Gerome's 
fine  portrait  of  the  pale  Rachel,  invested  with  the 
antique  attributes  of  tragedy.  The  rise  of  the 
curtain  had  drawn  away  most  of  the  company. 
Sherringham,  from  his  bench,  watched  Miriam  a 
little,  turning  his  eye  from  her  to  the  vivid  image 
of  the  dead  actress  and  thinking  that  his  com- 
panion suffered  little  by  the  juxtaposition.  Pre- 
sently he  came  over  and  joined  her  again,  and  she 
said  to  him,  "  I  wonder  if  that  is  what  your  cousin 
had  in  his  mind." 

"  My  cousin  ?  " 

"  What  was  his  name  ?  Mr.  Dormer  ;  that  first 
day  at  Madame  Carry's.  He  offered  to  paint  my 
portrait." 

"  I  remember.     I  put  him  up  to  it." 

"  Was  he  thinking  of  this  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  he  has  ever  seen  it.  I  dare  say 
I  was." 

"  Well,  when  we  go  to  London  he  must  do  it," 
said  Miriam. 

"  Oh,  there 's  no  hurry,"  Sherringham  replied. 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  395 

"  Don't  you  want  my  picture  ?  "  asked  the  girl, 
with  one  of  her  successful  touches. 

"  I  'm  not  sure  I  want  it  from  him.  I  don't 
know  quite  what  he  'd  make  of  you." 

"He  looked  so  clever  —  I  liked  him.  I  saw 
him  again  at  your  party." 

"  He  's  a  dear  fellow ;  but  what  is  one  to  say 
of  a  painter  who  goes  for  his  inspiration  to  the 
House  of  Commons  ? " 

"  To  the  House  of  Commons  ? " 

"  He  has  lately  got  himself  elected." 

"  Dear  me,  what  a  pity  !  I  wanted  to  sit  for 
him  ;  but  perhaps  he  won't  have  me,  as  I  'm  not 
a  member  of  Parliament." 

"  It 's  my  sister,  rather,  who  has  got  him  in." 

"  Your  sister,  who  was  at  your  house  that  day  ? 
What  has  she  to  do  with  it  ? " 

"  Why,  she 's  his  cousin,  just  as  I  am.  And 
in  addition,"  Sherringham  went  on,  "  she  's  to  be 
married  to  him." 

"  Married  —  really  ?  So  he  paints  her,  I  sup- 
pose ? " 

"  Not  much,  probably.  His  talent  in  that  line 
is  n't  what  she  esteems  in  him  most." 

"  It  is  n't  great,  then  ?  " 

"  I  have  n't  the  least  idea." 

"  And  in  the  political  line  ? " 

"  I  scarcely  can  tell.     He 's  very  clever." 

"  He  does  paint,  then  ?" 

"  I  dare  say." 

Miriam   looked   at    G6r6me's   picture    again. 


396  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Fancy  his  going  into  the  House  of  Commons  ! 
And  your  sister  put  him  there  ? " 

"She  worked,  she  canvassed." 

"  Ah,  you  're  a  queer  family ! "  the  girl  ex- 
claimed, turning  round  at  the  sound  of  a  step. 

"  We  're  lost  —  here 's  Mademoiselle  Voisin," 
said  Sherringham. 

This  celebrity  presented  herself  smiling  and 
addressing  Miriam.  "I  acted  ior you  to-night  — 
I  did  my  best." 

"What  a  pleasure  to  speak  to  you,  to  thank 
you ! "  the  girl  murmured,  admiringly.  She  was 
startled  and  dazzled. 

"  I  could  n't  come  to  you  before,  but  now  I  've 
got  a  rest  —  for  half  an  hour,"  the  actress  went 
on.  Gracious  and  passive,  as  if  she  were  a  little 
tired,  she  let  Sherringham,  without  looking  at 
him,  take  her  hand  and  raise  it  to  his  lips.  "  I  'm 
sorry  I  make  you  lose  the  others  —  they  are  so 
good  in  this  act,"  she  added. 

"We  have  seen  them  before,  and  there  's  noth- 
ing so  good  as  you,"  Miriam  replied. 

"I  like  my  part,"  said  Mademoiselle  Voisin, 
gently,  smiling  still  at  our  young  lady  with  clear, 
charming  eyes.  "  One  is  always  better,  in  that 
case." 

"  She 's  so  bad  sometimes,  you  know !  "  Sher- 
ringham jested,  to  Miriam  ;  leading  the  actress 
to  glance  at  him  kindly  and  vaguely,  with  a  little 
silence  which,  with  her,  you  could  not  call  em- 
barrassment, but  which  was  still  less  affectation. 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  397 

"  And  it 's  so  interesting  to  be  here  —  so  inter- 
esting ! "  Miriam  declared. 

"  Ah,  you  like  our  old  house  ?  Yes,  we  are 
very  proud  of  it."  And  Mademoiselle  Voisin 
smiled  again  at  Sherringham,  good-humoredly,  as 
if  to  say :  "  Well,  here  I  am,  and  what  do  you 
want  of  me  ?  Don't  ask  me  to  invent  it  myself, 
but  if  you  '11  tell  me  I  '11  do  it."  Miriam  admired 
the  note  of  discreet  interrogation  in  her  voice  — 
the  slight  suggestion  of  surprise  at  their  "old 
house  "  being  liked.  The  actress  was  already  an 
astonishment  to  her,  from  her  seeming  still  more 
perfect  on  a  nearer  view,  which  was  not,  she  had 
an  idea,  what  actresses  usually  did.  This  was 
very  encouraging  to  her;  it  widened  the  pro- 
gramme of  a  young  lady  about  to  embrace  the 
scenic  career.  To  have  so  much  to  show  before 
ihe  footlights  and  yet  to  have  so  much  left  when 
you  came  off  —  that  was  really  wonderful.  Ma- 
demoiselle Voisin's  eyes,  as  one  looked  into  them, 
were  still  more  agreeable  than  the  distant  spec- 
tator would  have  supposed  ;  and  there  was  in  her 
appearance  an  extreme  finish  which  instantly 
suggested  to  Miriam  that  she  herself,  in  compar- 
ison, was  big  and  rough  and  coarse. 

"  You  're  lovely  to-night  —  you  're  particularly 
lovely,"  said  Sherringham,  very  frankly,  trans- 
lating Miriam's  own  impression  and  at  the  same 
time  giving  her  an  illustration  of  the  way  that, 
in  Paris  at  least,  gentlemen  expressed  themselves 
to  the  stars  of  the  drama.  She  thought  she 


398  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

knew  her  companion  very  well,  and  had  been 
witness  of  the  degree  to  which,  under  these  cir- 
cumstances, his  familiarity  could  increase  ;  but 
his  address  to  the  slim,  distinguished,  harmonious 
woman  before  them  had  a  different  quality,  the 
note  of  a  special  usage.  If  Miriam  had  had  any 
apprehension  that  such  directness  might  be 
taken  as  excessive,  it  was  removed  by  the  man- 
ner in  which  Mademoiselle  Voisin  returned  — 

"  Oh,  one  is  always  well  enough  when  one  is 
made  up  ;  one  is  always  exactly  the  same."  That 
served  as  an  example  of  the  good  taste  with 
which  a  star  of  the  drama  could  receive  homage 
that  was  wanting  in  originality.  Miriam  deter- 
mined, on  the  spot,  that  this  should  be  the  way 
she  would  receive  it.  The  grace  of  her  new  ac- 
quaintance was  the  greater  as  the  becoming 
bloom  which  she  alluded  to  as  artificial  was  the 
result  of  a  science  so  consummate  that  it  had 
none  of  the  grossness  of  a  mask.  The  percep- 
tion of  all  this  was  exciting  to  our  young  aspi- 
rant, and  her  excitement  relieved  itself  in  the 
inquiry,  which  struck  her  as  rude  as  soon  as  she 
had  uttered  it  — 

"  You  acted  for  me  ?  How  did  you  know  ? 
What  am  I  to  you  ? " 

"Monsieur  Sherringham  has  told  me  about 
you.  He  says  we  are  nothing  beside  you  ;  that 
you  are  to  be  the  great  star  of  the  future.  I  'm 
proud  that  you've  seen  me." 

"That  of  course  is  what  I  tell  every  one," 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  399 

Sherringham  said,  a  trifle  awkwardly,  to  Mir- 
iam. 

"  I  can  believe  it  when  I  see  you.  Je  vous  ai 
bien  observee,"  the  actress  continued  in  her 
sweet,  conciliatory  tone. 

Miriam  looked  from  one  of  her  interlocutors  to 
the  other,  as  if  there  was  a  joy  to  her  in  this 
report  of  Sherringham 's  remarks,  accompanied, 
however,  and  partly  mitigated,  by  a  quicker  vision 
of  what  might  have  passed  between  a  secretary 
of  embassy  and  a  creature  so  exquisite  as  Made- 
moiselle Voisin. 

"Ah,  you  're  wonderful  people  —  a  most  inter- 
esting impression  !  "  she  sighed. 

"  I  was  looking  for  you ;  he  had  prepared  me. 
We  are  such  old  friends  !  "  said  the  actress,  in  a 
tone  courteously  exempt  from  intention :  upon 
which  Sherringham  again  took  her  hand  and 
raised  it  to  his  lips,  with  a  tenderness  which  her 
whole  appearance  seemed  to  bespeak  for  her,  a 
sort  of  practical  consideration  and  carefulness  of 
touch,  as  if  she  were  an  object  precious  and  frail, 
an  instrument  for  producing  rare  sounds,  to  be 
handled,  like  a  legendary  violin,  with  a  recogni- 
tion of  its  value. 

"Your  dressing-room  is  so  pretty — show  her 
your  dressing-room,"  said  Sherringham. 

"  Willingly,  if  she  '11  come  up.  Vous  savez 
c'est  une  montee." 

"  It 's  a  shame  to  inflict  it  on  you?  Miriam  ob- 
jected. 


400  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Comment  done  ?  If  it  will  interest  you  in 
the  least !  "  They  exchanged  civilities,  almost 
caresses,  trying  which  could  have  the  nicest  man- 
ner to  the  other.  It  was  the  actress's  manner 
that  struck  Miriam  most ;  it  denoted  such  a 
training,  so  much  taste,  expressed  such  a  ripe 
conception  of  urbanity. 

"  No  wonder  she  acts  well  when  she  has  that 
tact  —  feels,  perceives,  is  so  remarkable,  rnon 
Dieu,  mon  Dieu  !  "  Miriam  said  to  herself  as  they 
followed  their  conductress  into  another  corridor 
and  up  a  wide,  plain  staircase.  The  staircase 
was  spacious  and  long,  and  this  part  of  the  estab- 
lishment was  sombre  and  still,  with  the  gravity 
of  a  college  or  a  convent.  They  reached  another 
passage,  lined  with  little  doors,  on  each  of  which 
the  name  of  a  comedian  was  painted  ;  and  here 
the  aspect  became  still  more  monastic,  like  that 
of  a  row  of  solitary  cells.  Mademoiselle  Voisin  led 
the  way  to  her  own  door,  obligingly,  as  if  she 
wished  to  be  hospitable,  dropping  little  subdued, 
friendly  attempts  at  explanation  on  the  way.  At 
her  threshold  the  monasticism  stopped.  Miriam 
found  herself  in  a  wonderfully  upholstered  nook, 
a  nest  of  lamplight  and  delicate  cretonne.  Save 
for  its  pair  of  long  glasses  it  looked  like  a  tiny 
boudoir,  with  a  water-color  drawing  of  value  in 
each  panel  of  stretched  stuff,  its  crackling  fire, 
its  charming  order.  It  was  intensely  bright  and 
extremely  hot,  singularly  pretty  and  exempt  from 
litter.  Nothing  was  lying  about,  but  a  small 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  401 

draped  doorway  led  into  an  inner  sanctuary.  To 
Miriam  it  seemed  royal ;  it  immediately  made  the 
art  of  the  comedian  the  most  distinguished  thing 
in  the  world.  It  was  just  such  a  place  as  they 
should  have,  in  the  intervals,  if  they  were  ex- 
pected to  be  great  artists.  It  was  a  result  of  the 
same  evolution  as  Mademoiselle  Voisin  herself 
—  not  that  our  young  lady  found  this  particular 
term  to  her  hand,  to  express  her  idea.  But  her 
mind  was  flooded  with  an  impression  of  style,  of 
refinement,  of  the  long  continuity  of  a  tradition. 
The  actress  said,  "  Voild,  cest  tout !  "  as  if  it  were 
little  enough  and  there  were  even  something 
clumsy  in  her  having  brought  them  so  far  for 
nothing,  and  in  their  all  sitting  there  waiting  and 
looking  at  each  other  till  it  was  time  for  her  to 
change  her  dress.  But  to  Miriam  it  was  occu- 
pation enough  to  note  what  she  did  and  said : 
these  things  and  her  whole  person  and  carriage 
struck  her  as  exquisite  in  their  adaptation  to  the 
particular  occasion.  She  had  had  an  idea  that 
foreign  actresses  were  rather  of  the  cabotin  or- 
der ;  but  her  hostess  suggested  to  her  much  more 
a  princess  than  a  cabotine.  She  would  do  things 
as  she  liked,  and  straight  off :  Miriam  could  n't 
fancy  her  in  the  gropings  and  humiliations  of  re- 
hearsal. Everything  in  her  had  been  sifted  and 
formed,  her  tone  was  perfect,  her  amiability  com- 
plete, and  she  might  have  been  the  charming 
young  wife  of  a  secretary  of  state  receiving  a 
pair  of  strangers  of  distinction.  Miriam  observed 


4O2  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

all  her  movements.  And  then,  as  Sherringham 
had  said,  she  was  particularly  lovely. 

Suddenly  she  told  Sherringham  that  she  must 
put  him  d  la  porte  —  she  wanted  to  change  her 
dress.  He  retired  and  returned  to  the  foyer, 
where  Miriam  was  to  rejoin  him  after  remaining 
the  few  minutes  more  with  Mademoiselle  Voisin 
and  coming  down  with  her.  He  waited  for  his 
companion,  walking  up  and  down  and  making  up 
his  mind;  and  when  she  presently  came  in  he 
said  to  her : 

"  Please  don't  go  back  for  the  rest  of  the  play. 
Stay  here."  They  now  had  the  foyer  virtually 
to  themselves. 

"  I  want  to  stay  here.  I  like  it  better."  She 
moved  back  to  the  chimney-piece,  from  above 
which  the  cold  portrait  of  Rachel  looked  down, 
and  as  he  accompanied  her  he  said  : 

"  I  meant  what  I  said  just  now." 

"  What  you  said  to  Voisin  ?  " 

"  No,  no  ;  to  you.  Give  it  up  and  live  with 
me." 

"  Give  it  up  ? "  And  she  turned  her  stage  face 
upon  him. 

"  Give  it  up,  and  I  '11  marry  you  to-morrow." 

"  This  is  a  happy  time  to  ask  it !  "  she  mocked. 
"And  this  is  a  good  place." 

"  Very  good  indeed,  and  that 's  why  I  speak : 
it 's  a  place  to  make  one  choose  —  it  puts  it  all 
before  one." 

"  To  make  you  choose,  you  mean.     I  'm  much 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  403 

obliged,  but  that's  not  my  choice,"  laughed 
Miriam. 

"  You  shall  be  anything  you  like,  except  this." 

"  Except  what  I  most  want  to  be  ?  I  am  much 
obliged." 

"  Don't  you  care  for  me  ?  Have  n't  you  any 
gratitude  ?  "  Sherringham  asked. 

"  Gratitude  for  kindly  removing  the  blessed 
cup  from  my  lips  ?  I  want  to  be  what  she  is  — 
I  want  it  more  than  ever." 

"  Ah,  what  she  is  !  "  he  replied  impatiently. 

"  Do  you  mean  I  can't  ?  We  '11  see  if  I  can't. 
Tell  me  more  about  her  —  tell  me  everything." 

"  Have  n't  you  seen  for  yourself,  and  can't  you 
judge  ? " 

"  She 's  strange,  she  's  mysterious,"  Miriam 
declared,  looking  at  the  fire.  "  She  showed  us 
nothing  —  nothing  of  her  real  self." 

"  So  much  the  better,  all  things  considered." 

"Are  there  all  sorts  of  other  things  in  her  life  ? 
That's  what  I  believe,"  Miriam  went  on,  raising 
her  eyes  to  him. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  what  there  is  in  the  life  of 
such  a  woman." 

"  Imagine  — when  she 's  so  perfect !  "  the  girl 
exclaimed,  thoughtfully.  "  Ah,  she  kept  me  off 
—  she  kept  me  off  !  Her  charming  manner  is  in 
itself  a  kind  of  contempt.  It 's  an  abyss  —  it 's 
the  wall  of  China.  She  has  a  hard  polish,  an  in- 
imitable surface,  like  some  wonderful  porcelain 
that  costs  more  than  you  'd  think." 


404  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Do  you  want  to  become  like  that  ? "  Sher- 
ringham  asked. 

"  If  I  could  I  should  be  enchanted.  One  can 
always  try." 

"You  must  act  better  than  she,"  said  Sher- 
ringham. 

"  Better  ?  I  thought  you  wanted  me  to  give  it 
up." 

"  Ah,  I  don't  know  what  I  want,  and  you  tor- 
ment me  and  turn  me  inside  out !  What  I  want 
is  you  yourself." 

"  Oh,  don't  worry,"  said  Miriam,  kindly.  Then 
she  added  that  Mademoiselle  Voisin  had  asked 
her  to  come  to  see  her ;  to  which  Sherringham 
replied,  with  a  certain  dryness,  that  she  would 
probably  not  find  that  necessary.  This  made 
Miriam  stare,  and  she  asked :  "  Do  you  mean  it 
won't  do,  on  account  of  mamma's  prejudices  ?  " 

"  Say,  this  time,  on  account  of  mine." 

"  Do  you  mean  because  she  has  lovers  ?  " 

"  Her  lovers  are  none  of  our  business." 

"  None  of  mine,  I  see.  So  you  have  been  one 
of  them  ? " 

"  No  such  luck." 

"  What  a  pity !  I  should  have  liked  to  see 
that.  One  must  see  everything,  to  be  able  to  do 
everything."  And  as  he  inquired  what  she  had 
wished  to  see  she  replied :  "  The  way  a  woman 
like  that  receives  one  of  the  old  ones." 

Sherringham  gave  a  groan  at  this,  which  was 
at  the  same  time  partly  a  laugh,  and,  turning 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  405 

away  and  dropping  upon  a  bench,  ejaculated  : 
"  You  '11  do  —  you  '11  do  !  " 

He  sat  there  some  minutes,  with  his  elbows  on 
his  knees  and  his  face  in  his  hands.  Miriam  re- 
mained looking  at  the  portrait  of  Rachel ;  after 
which  she  demanded  :  "  Does  n't  such  a  woman 
as  that  receive  —  receive  every  one  ?  " 

"  Every  one  who  goes  to  see  her,  no  doubt." 

"  And  who  goes  ?  " 

"  Lots  of  men  —  clever  men,  eminent  men." 

"  Ah,  what  a  charming  life  !  Then  does  n't 
she  go  out  ?  " 

"  Not  what  we  Philistines  mean  by  that  —  not 
into  society,  never.  She  never  enters  a  lady's 
drawing-room." 

"How  strange,  when  one's  as  distinguished 
as  that ;  except  that  she  must  escape  a  lot  of  stu- 
pidities and  corvtes.  Then  where  does  she  learn 
such  manners  ? " 

"  She  teaches  manners,  d  ses  heures :  she 
does  n't  need  to  learn  them." 

"  Oh,  she  has  given  me  ideas !  But  in  London 
actresses  go  into  society,"  Miriam  continued. 

"  Oh,  in  London  nous  melons  les  genres  !  " 

"  And  sha'n't  I  go  —  I  mean  if  I  want  ?  " 

"  You  '11  have  every  facility  to  bore  yourself. 
Don't  doubt  of  it." 

"  And  does  n't  she  feel  excluded  ?  "  Miriam 
asked. 

"Excluded  from  what?  She  has  the  fullest 
life." 


406  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

11  The  fullest  ?  " 

"  An  intense  artistic  life.  The  cleverest  men 
in  Paris  talk  over  her  work  with  her ;  the  prin- 
cipal authors  of  plays  discuss  with  her  subjects 
and  characters  and  questions  of  treatment.  She 
lives  in  the  world  of  art." 

"  Ah,  the  world  of  art  —  how  I  envy  her ! 
And  you  offer  me  Dashwood  !  " 

Sherringham  rose  in  his  emotion.  "I  offer 
you  —  ? " 

Miriam  burst  out  laughing.  "  You  look  so 
droll !  You  offer  me  yourself  then,  instead  of  all 
these  things." 

"  My  child,  I  also  am  a  very  clever  man,"  he 
said,  smiling,  though  conscious  that  for  a  moment 
he  had  stood  gaping. 

"  You  are  —  you  are  ;  I  delight  in  you.  No 
ladies  at  all  —  no  femmes  comme  ilfautf  "  Mir- 
iam began  again. 

"  Ah,  what  do  they  matter  ?  Your  business  is 
the  artistic  life  !  "  he  broke  out,  with  inconse- 
quence and  with  a  little  irritation  at  hearing  her 
sound  that  trivial  note  again. 

"  You  're  a  dear  —  your  charming  good  sense 
comes  back  to  you  !  What  do  you  want  of  me, 
then  ? " 

"  I  want  you  for  myself  —  not  for  others ;  and 
now,  in  time,  before  anything  's  done." 

"  Why  then  did  you  bring  me  here  ?  Every- 
thing 's  done;  I  feel  it  to-night." 

"I  know  the  way  you  should  look  at  it  — 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  407 

if  you  do  look  at  it  at  all,"  Sherringham  con- 
ceded. 

"  That 's  so  easy !  I  thought  you  liked  the 
stage  so,"  Miriam  said,  artfully. 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  be  a  great  swell  ?  " 

"And  don't  you  want  me  to  be  ?  " 

"  You  will  be  —  you  '11  share  my  glory." 

"  So  will  you  share  mine." 

"  The  husband  of  an  actress  ?  Yes,  I  'm 
that !  "  Sherringham  cried,  with  a  frank  ring  of 
disgust. 

"  It 's  a  silly  position,  no  doubt.  But  if  you  're 
too  good  for  it  why  talk  about  it  ?  Don't  you 
think  I  'm  important  ?  "  Miriam  inquired.  Her 
companion  stood  looking  at  her,  and  she  suddenly 
said,  in  a  different  tone:  "Ah,  why  should  we 
quarrel,  when  you  have  been  so  kind,  so  gener- 
ous ?  Can't  we  always  be  friends  —  the  solidest 
friends  ? " 

Her  voice  sank  to  the  sweetest  cadence  and 
her  eyes  were  grateful  and  good  as  they  rested  on 
him.  She  sometimes  said  things  with  such  per- 
fection that  they  seemed  dishonest,  but  in  this 
case  Sherringham  was  starred  to  an  expressive 
response.  Just  as  he  was  making  it,  however,  he 
was  moved  to  utter  other  words  —  "  Take  care, 
here  's  Dashwood  !  "  Mrs.  Rooth's  companion 
was  in  the  doorway.  He  had  come  back  to  say 
that  they  really  must  relieve  him. 


XXII. 

MRS.  DALLOW  came  up  to  London  soon  after  the 
meeting  of  Parliament ;  she  made  no  secret  of 
the  fact  that  she  was  fond  of  the  place,  and  natu- 
rally, in  present  conditions,  it  would  not  have  be- 
come less  attractive  to  her.  But  she  prepared  to 
withdraw  from  it  again  for  the  Easter  vacation, 
not  to  return  to  Harsh,  but  to  pay  a  couple  of 
country  visits.  She  did  not,  however,  leave  town 
with  the  crowd  —  she  never  did  anything  with 
the  crowd  —  but  waited  till  the  Monday  after 
Parliament  rose  ;  facing  with  composure,  in  Great 
Stanhope  Street,  the  horrors,  as  she  had  been 
taught  to  consider  them,  of  a  Sunday  out  of  the 
session.  She  had  done  what  she  could  to  miti- 
gate them  by  asking  a  handful  of  "  stray  men  "  to 
dine  with  her  that  evening.  Several  members  of 
this  disconsolate  class  sought  comfort  in  Great 
Stanhope  Street  in  the  afternoon,  and  them,  for 
the  most  part,  she  also  invited  to  come  back  at 
eight  o'clock.  There  were,  therefore,  almost  too 
many  people  at  dinner  —  there  were  even  a 
couple  of  wives.  Nick  Dormer  came  to  dinner, 
but  he  was  not  present  in  the  afternoon.  Each 
of  the  persons  who  were  had  said  on  coming  in, 
"  So  you  've  not  gone  —  I  'm  awfully  glad."  Mrs. 


THE  TRAGIC  MUSE.  409 

Dallow  had  replied,  "  No,  I  've  not  gone,"  but  she 
had  in  no  case  added  that  she  was  glad,  nor  had 
she  offered  an  explanation.  She  never  offered 
explanations  :  she  always  assumed  that  no  one 
could  invent  them  so  well  as  those  who  had  the 
florid  taste  to  desire  them. 

And  in  this  case  she  was  right,  for  it  is  prob- 
able that  few  of  her  visitors  failed  to  say  to  them- 
selves that  her  not  having  gone  would  have  had 
something  to  do  with  Dormer.  That  could  pass 
for  an  explanation  with  many  of  Mrs.  Dallow's 
visitors,  who,  as  a  general  thing,  were  not  mor- 
bidly analytic;  especially  with  those  who  met 
Nick  as  a  matter  of  course  at  the  dinner.  His 
being  present  at  this  lady's  entertainments,  being 
in  her  house  whenever,  as  the  phrase  was,  a 
candle  was  lighted,  was  taken  as  a  sign  that 
there  was  something  rather  particular  between 
them.  Nick  had  said  to  her,  more  than  once, 
that  people  would  wonder  why  they  did  n't  marry ; 
but  he  was  wrong  in  this,  inasmuch  as  there  were 
many  of  their  friends  to  whom  it  would  not  have 
occurred  that  his  position  could  be  improved  by 
it.  That  they  were  cousins  was  a  fact  not  so 
evident  to  others  as  to  themselves,  in  consequence 
of  which  they  appeared  remarkably  intimate. 
The  person  seeing  clearest  in  the  matter  was 
Mrs.  Gresham,  who  lived  so  much  in  the  world 
that  being  alone  had  become  her  idea  of  true  so- 
ciability. She  knew  very  well  that  if  she  had 
been  privately  CD  gaged  to  a  young  man  as  amia- 


410  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

ble  as  Nick  Dormer  she  would  have  managed 
that  publicity  should  not  play  such  a  part  in  their 
intercourse  ;  and  she  had  her  secret  scorn  for  the 
stupidity  of  people  whose  conception  of  Nick's 
relation  to  Julia  Dallow  rested  on  the  fact  that  he 
was  always  included  in  her  parties.  "  If  he  never 
was  there  they  might  talk,"  she  said  to  herself. 
But  Mrs.  Gresham  was  supersubtle.  To  her  it 
would  have  appeared  natural  that  Julia  should 
celebrate  the  parliamentary  recess  by  going  down 
to  Harsh  and  securing  Nick's  company  there  for 
a  fortnight ;  she  recognized  Mrs.  Dallow's  actual 
plan  as  a  comparatively  poor  substitute  —  the 
project  of  spending  the  holidays  in  other  people's 
houses,  to  which  Nick  had  also  promised  to  come. 
Mrs.  Gresham  was  romantic  ;  she  wondered  what 
was  the  good  of  mere  snippets  and  snatches,  the 
chances  that  any  one  might  have,  when  large, 
still  days  a  deux  were  open  to  you  —  chances  of 
which  half  the  sanctity  was  in  what  they  excluded. 
However,  there  were  more  unsettled  matters  be- 
tween Mrs.  Dallow  and  her  quee/  kinsman  than 
even  Mrs.  Gresham's  fine  insight  could  embrace. 
She  was  not  present,  on  the  Sunday  before  Easter, 
at  the  dinner  in  Great  Stanhope  Street ;  but  if 
she  had  been  Julia's  singular  indifference  to  ob- 
servation would  have  stopped  short  of  encourag- 
ing her  to  remain  in  the  drawing-room,  with  Nick, 
after  the  others  had  gone.  I  may  add  that  Mrs. 
Gresham's  extreme  curiosity  would  have  embold- 
ened her  as  little  to  do  so.  She  would  have  taken 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  411 

for  granted  that  the  pair  wished  to  be  alone  to- 
gether, though  she  would  have  regarded  this  only 
as  a  snippet. 

The  guests  stayed  late  and  it  was  nearly  twelve 
o'clock  when  Nick,  standing  before  the  fire  in  the 
room  they  had  quitted,  broke  out  to  his  compan- 
ion : 

"  See  here,  Julia,  how  long  do  you  really  ex- 
pect me  to  endure  this  kind  of  thing  ? "  Mrs. 
Dallow  made  him  no  answer ;  she  only  leaned 
back  in  her  chair  with  her  eyes  upon  his.  He 
met  her  gaze  for  a  moment ;  then  he  turned  round 
to  the  fire  and  for  another  moment  looked  into  it. 
After  this  he  faced  Mrs.  Dallow  again,  with  the 
exclamation,  "  It 's  so  foolish  —  it 's  so  damnably 
foolish ! " 

She  still  said  nothing,  but  at  the  end  of  a  min- 
ute she  spoke  without  answering  him.  "  I  shall 
expect  you  on  Tuesday,  and  I  hope  you  '11  come 
by  a  decent  train." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  decent  train  ? " 

"  I  mean  I  hope  you  '11  not  leave  it  till  the  last 
thing  before  dinner,  so  that  we  can  have  a  little 
walk,  or  something." 

"What's  a  little  walk,  or  something?  Why, 
if  you  make  such  a  point  of  my  coming  to  Griffin, 
do  you  want  me  to  come  at  all  ? " 

Mrs.  Dallow  hesitated  an  instant ;  then  she  ex- 
claimed :  "  I  knew  you  hated  it !  " 

"  You  provoke  me  so,"  said  Nick.  "  You  try 
to,  I  think." 


412  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  And  Severals  still  worse.  You  '11  get  out  of 
that  if  you  can,"  Mrs.  Dallow  went  on. 

"  If  I  can  ?     What 's  to  prevent  me  ?  " 

"  You  promised  Lady  Whiteroy.  But  of  course 
that 's  nothing." 

"I  don't  care  a  straw  for  Lady  Whiteroy." 

"  And  you  promised  me.  But  that  's  less 
still." 

"  It  is  foolish — it's  quite  idiotic,"  said  Nick, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  eyes  on  the 
ceiling. 

There  was  another  silence,  at  the  end  of  which 
Mrs.  Dallow  remarked :  "  You  might  have  an- 
swered Mr.  Macgeorge  when  he  spoke  to  you." 

"  Mr.  Macgeorge  —  what  has  he  to  do  with 
it?" 

"  He  has  to  do  with  your  getting  on  a  little. 
If  you  think  that 's  the  way!  " 

Nick  broke  into  a  laugh.  "  I  like  lessons  in 
getting  on  — in  other  words,  I  suppose  you  mean 
in  urbanity  —  from  you,  Julia  !  " 

"Why  not  from  me  ?  " 

"  Because  you  can  do  nothing  base.  You  're 
incapable  of  putting  on  a  flattering  manner,  to 
get  something  by  it  :  therefore,  why  should  you 
expect  me  to  ?  You  're  unflattering  —  that  is, 
you  're  austere  —  in  proportion  as  there  may  be 
something  to  be  got." 

Mrs.  Dallow  sprang  up  from  her  chair,  coming 
towards  him.  "  There  is  only  one  thing  I  want 
in  the  world  —  you  know  very  well." 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  413 

"  Yes,  you  want  it  so  much  that  you  won't 
even  take  it  when  it 's  pressed  upon  you.  How 
long  do  you  seriously  expect  me  to  bear  it?" 
Nick  repeated. 

"  I  never  asked  you  to  do  anything  base,"  she 
said,  standing  in  front  of  him.  "  If  I  'm  not 
clever  about  throwing  myself  into  things,  it  's 
all  the  more  reason  you  should  be." 

"  If  you  're  not  clever,  my  dear  Julia  ? "  Nick, 
standing  close  to  her,  placed  his  hands  on  her 
shoulders  and  shook  her  a  little,  with  a  mix- 
ture of  tenderness  and  passion.  "  You  're  clever 
enough  to  make  me  furious,  sometimes  !  " 

She  opened  and  closed  her  fan,  looking  down 
at  it  while  she  submitted  to  this  attenuated  vio- 
lence. "  All  I  want  is  that  when  a  man  like  Mr. 
Macgeorge  talks  to  you,  you  should  n't  appear 
to  be  bored  to  death.  You  used  to  be  so  charm- 
ing, in  that  sort  of  way.  And  now  you  appear 
to  take  no  interest  in  anything.  At  dinner,  to- 
night, you  scarcely  opened  your  lips ;  you  treated 
them  all  as  if  you  only  wished  they  'd  go." 

"  I  did  wish  they  'd  go.  Have  n't  I  told  you  a 
hundred  times  what  I  think  of  your  salon  ? " 

"  How  then  do  you  want  me  to  live?"  Mrs. 
Dallow  asked.  "  Am  I  not  to  have  a  creature  in 
the  house  ? " 

"  As  many  creatures  as  you  like.  Your  free- 
dom is  complete,  and  as  far  as  I  am  concerned 
always  will  be.  Only  when  you  challenge  me 
and  overhaul  me  —  not  justly,  I  think  —  I  must 


414  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

confess  the  simple  truth,  that  there  are  many  of 
your  friends  I  don't  delight  in." 

"Oh, your  idea  of  pleasant  people!"  Julia  ex- 
claimed. "I  should  like  once  for  all  to  know 
what  it  really  is." 

"  I  can  tell  you  what  it  really  is  n't :  it  is  n't 
Mr.  Macgeorge.  He 's  a  being  almost  grotesquely 
limited." 

"  He  '11  be  where  you  '11  never  be  —  unless  you 
change." 

"  To  be  where  Mr.  Macgeorge  is  not  would  be 
very  much  my  desire.  Therefore,  why  should  I 
change  ? "  Nick  demanded.  "  However,  I  had  n't 
the  least  intention  of  being  rude  to  him,  and  I 
don't  think  I  was,"  he  went  on.  "  To  the  best 
of  my  ability  I  assume  a  virtue  if  I  have  it  not ; 
but  apparently  I  'm  not  enough  of  a  comedian." 

"  If  you  have  it  not  ?  It 's  when  you  say  things 
like  that  that  you  're  so  dreadfully  tiresome.  As 
if  there  were  anything  that  you  have  n't  or 
might  n't  have  !  " 

Nick  turned  away  from  his  hostess  ;  he  took  a 
few  impatient  steps  in  the  room,  looking  at  the 
carpet,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  again. 
Then  he  came  back  to  the  fire  with  the  observa- 
tion, "  It 's  rather  hard  to  be  found  so  wanting 
when  one  has  tried  to  play  one's  part  so  beauti- 
fully." He  paused,  with  his  eyes  on  Mrs.  Dai- 
low's;  then  continued,  with  a  vibration  in  his 
voice  :  "  I  've  imperiled  my  immortal  soul,  or  at 
least  I  Ve  bemuddled  my  intelligence,  by  all  the 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  415 

things  I  don't  care  for  that  I  've  tried  to  do,  and 
all  the  things  I  detest  that  I  Ve  tried  to  be,  and 
all  the  things  I  never  can  be  that  I  've  tried  to 
look  as  if  I  were  —  all  the  appearances  and  imita- 
tions, the  pretenses  and  hypocrisies  in  which  I  've 
steeped  myself  to  the  eyes  ;  and  at  the  end  of  it 
(it  serves  me  right !)  my  reward  is  simply  to 
learn  that  I  'm  still  not  half  humbug  enough  !  " 

Mrs.  Dallow  looked  away  from  him  as  soon  as 
he  had  spoken  these  words  ;  she  attached  her 
eyes  to  the  clock  which  stood  behind  him,  and 
observed  irrelevantly  : 

"  I  'm  very  sorry,  but  I  think  you  had  better 
go.  I  don't  like  you  to  stay  after  midnight." 

"  Ah,  what  you  like  and  what  you  don't  like, 
and  where  one  begins  and  the  other  ends  —  all 
that  is  an  impenetrable  mystery  !  "  the  young 
man  declared.  But  he  took  no  further  notice  of 
her  allusion  to  his  departure,  adding,  in  a  dif- 
ferent tone  :  "  '  A  man  like  Mr.  Macgeorge  '  ! 
When  you  say  a  thing  of  that  sort,  in  a  certain 
particular  way,  I  should  rather  like  to  surfer  you 
to  perish." 

Mrs.  Dallow  stared  ;  it  might  have  seemed  for 
an  instant  that  she  was  trying  to  look  stupid. 
"  How  can  I  help  it  if  a  few  years  hence  he  is 
certain  to  be  at  the  head  of  any  Liberal  govern- 
ment ? " 

"  We  can't  help  it,  of  course,  but  we  can  help 
talking  about  it,"  Nick  smiled.  <(If  we  don't 
mention  it,  it  may  not  be  noticed." 


41 6  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  You  're  trying  to  make  me  angry.  You  're 
in  one  of  your  vicious  moods,"  observed  Mrs. 
Dallow,  blowing  out,  on  the  chimney-piece,  a 
guttering  candle. 

"  That  I  am  exasperated  I  have  already  had 
the  honor  very  positively  to  inform  you.  All  the 
same  I  maintain  that  I  was  irreproachable  at 
dinner.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  shall  always 
be  so  good  as  that." 

"  You  looked  so  out  of  it ;  you  were  as  gloomy 
as  if  every  earthly  hope  had  left  you,  and  you 
did  n't  make  a  single  contribution  to  any  discus- 
sion that  took  place.  Don't  you  think  I  observe 
you  ? "  Mrs.  Dallow  asked,  with  an  irony  tem- 
pered by  a  tenderness  that  was  unsuccessfully 
concealed. 

"  Ah,  my  darling,  what  you  observe  ! "  Nick 
exclaimed,  laughing,  and  stopping.  But  he  added 
the  next  moment,  more  seriously,  as  if  his  tone 
had  been  disrespectful :  "  You  probe  me  to  the 
bottom,  no  doubt." 

"You  needn't  come  either  to  Griffin  or  to 
Severals  if  you  don't  want  to." 

"  Give  them  up  yourself  ;  stay  here  with  me  !  " 

She  colored  quickly,  as  he  said  this,  and  broke 
out :  "  Lord  !  how  you  hate  political  houses !  " 

"  How  can  you  say  that,  when  from  February 
to  August  I  spend  every  blessed  night  in  one  ? " 

"Yes,  and  hate  that  worst  of  all." 

"So  do  half  the  people  who  are  in  it.  You 
must  have  so  many  things,  so  many  people,  so 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  41? 

much  mise-en-schie  and  such  a  perpetual  spectacle 
to  live,"  Nick  went  on.  "  Perpetual  motion,  per- 
petual visits,  perpetual  crowds !  If  you  go  into 
the  country  you  '11  see  forty  people  every  day  and 
be  mixed  up  with  them  all  day.  The  idea  of  a 
quiet  fortnight  in  town,  when  by  a  happy  if  idi- 
otic superstition  everybody  goes  out  of  it,  dis- 
concerts and  frightens  you.  It 's  the  very  time, 
it 's  the  very  place,  to  do  a  little  work  and  possess 
one's  soul." 

This  vehement  allocution  found  Mrs.  Dallow 
evidently  somewhat  unprepared ;  but  she  was 
sagacious  enough,  instead  of  attempting  for  the 
moment  a  general  rejoinder,  to  seize  on  a  single 
phrase  and  say  :  "  Work  ?  What  work  can  you 
do  in  London  at  such  a  moment  as  this  ?  " 

Nick  hesitated  a  little.  "  I  might  tell  you  that 
I  wanted  to  get  up  a  lot  of  subjects,  to  sit  at 
home  and  read  bluebooks  ;  but  that  would  n't  be 
quite  what  I  mean." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  want  to  paint  ?  " 

"Yes,  that's  it,  since  you  drag  it  out  of  me." 

"  Why  do  you  make  such  a  mystery  about  it  ? 
You  're  at  perfect  liberty,"  said  Mrs.  Dallow. 

She  extended  her  hand  to  rest  it  on  the  man- 
tel-shelf, but  her  companion  took  it,  on  the  way, 
and  held  it  in  both  his  own.  "  You  are  delight- 
ful, Julia,  when  you  speak  in  that  tone  —  then  I 
know  why  it  is  I  love  you ;  but  I  can't  do  any- 
thing if  I  go  to  Griffin,  if  I  go  to  Severals." 

"  I  see  —  I  see,' '  said  Julia,  reflectively  and 
kindly. 


41 8  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"I've  scarcely  been  inside  of  my  studio  for 
months,  and  I  feel  quite  homesick  for  it.  The 
idea  of  putting  in  a  few  quiet  days  there  has 
taken  hold  of  me  :  I  rather  cling  to  it." 

"  It  seems  so  odd,  your  having  a  studio  !  "  Julia 
dropped,  speaking  so  quickly  that  the  words  were 
almost  incomprehensible. 

"  Does  n't  it  sound  absurd,  for  all  the  good  it 
does  me,  or  I  do  in  it  ?  Of  course  one  can  pro- 
duce nothing  but  rubbish  on  such  terms  —  with- 
out continuity  or  persistence,  with  just  a  few 
days  here  and  there.  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
myself,  no  doubt ;  but  even  my  rubbish  interests 
me.  'Guenille  si  Ton  veut,  ma  guenille  m'est 
chere.'  But  I  '11  go  down  to  Harsh  with  you,  in 
a  moment,  Julia,"  Nick  pursued  :  "  that  would  do 
as  well,  if  we  could  be  quiet  there,  without  peo- 
ple, without  a  creature  ;  and  I  should  really  be 
perfectly  content.  You  'd  sit  for  me  ;  it  would 
be  the  occasion  we  've  so  often  wanted  and  never 
found." 

Mrs.  Dallow  shook  her  head  slowly,  with  a 
smile  that  had  a  meaning  for  Nick.  "Thank 
you,  my  dear ;  nothing  would  induce  me  to  go  to 
Harsh  with  you." 

The  young  man  looked  at  her.  "  What 's  the 
matter,  whenever  it 's  a  question  of  anything  of 
that  sort  ?  Are  you  afraid  of  me  ? "  She  pulled 
her  hand  quickly  out  of  his,  turning  away  from 
him  ;  but  he  went  on  :  "  Stay  with  me  here,  then, 
when  everything  is  so  right  for  it.  We  shall  do 


THE   TRAGIC  MUSE.  419 

beautifully  —  have  the  whole  place,  have  the 
whole  day  to  ourselves.  Hang  your  engage- 
ments !  Telegraph  you  won't  come.  We  '11  live 
at  the  studio  — you  '11  sit  to  me  every  day.  Now 
or  never  is  our  chance  —  when  shall  we  have  so 
good  a  one  ?  Think  how  charming  it  will  be ! 
I  '11  make  you  wish  awfully  that  I  shall  do  some- 
thing." 

"  I  can't  get  out  of  Griffin  —  it 's  impossible," 
returned  Mrs.  Dallow,  moving  further  away,  with 
her  back  presented  to  him. 

"  Then  you  are  afraid  of  me  —  simply  !  " 

She  turned  quickly  round,  very  pale.  "Of 
course  I  am ;  you  are  welcome  to  know  it." 

He  went  toward  her,  and  for  a  moment  she 
seemed  to  make  another  slight  movement  of  re- 
treat. This,  however,  was  scarcely  perceptible, 
and  there  was  nothing  to  alarm  in  the  tone  of 
reasonable  entreaty  in  which  Nick  said  to  her, 
as  he  went  toward  her :  "  Put  an  end,  Julia,  to 
our  absurd  situation  —  it  really  can't  go  on  :  you 
have  no  right  to  expect  a  man  to  be  happy  or 
comfortable  in  so  false  a  position.  We  're  talked 
of  odiously  —  of  that  we  may  be  sure ;  and  yet 
what  good  have  we  of  it  ?  " 

"  Talked  of  ?    Do  I  care  for  that  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  you  're  indifferent  because  there 
are  no  grounds  ?  That 's  just  why  I  hate  it." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about ! " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Dallow,  with  quick  disdain. 

"  Be  my  wife  to-morrow  —  be  my  wife  next 


420  THE    TRAGIC  MUSE. 

week.  Let  us  have  done  with  this  fantastic  pro- 
bation and  be  happy." 

"  Leave  me  now —  come  back  to-morrow.  I  '11 
write  to  you."  She  had  the  air  of  pleading  with 
him  at  present  as  he  pleaded  with  her. 

"You  can't  resign  yourself  to  the  idea  of  one's 
looking  '  out  of  it ' !  "  laughed  Nick. 

"  Come  to-morrow,  before  lunch,"  Mrs.  Dallow 
continued. 

"  To  be  told  I  must  wait  six  months  more  and 
then  be  sent  about  my  business  ?  Ah,  Julia, 
Julia !  "  murmured  the  young  man. 

Something  in  this  simple  exclamation  —  it 
sounded  natural  and  perfectly  unstudied  —  evi- 
dently, on  the  instant,  made  a  great  impression 
on  his  companion. 

"You  shall  wait  no  longer,"  she  said,  after  a 
short  silence. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  no  longer  ? " 

"  Give  me  about  five  weeks  —  say  till  the 
Whitsuntide  recess." 

"  Five  weeks  are  a  great  deal,"  smiled  Nick. 

"  There  are  things  to  be  done  —  you  ought  to 
understand." 

"  I  only  understand  how  I  love  you." 

"  Dearest  Nick  ! "  said  Mrs.  Dallow ;  upon 
which  he  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"I  have  your  promise,  then,  for  five  weeks 
hence,  to  a  day  ?  "  he  demanded,  as  she  released 
herself. 

"  We  '11  settle  that  —  the  exact  day  :  there  are 


THE    TRAGIC  MUSE.  421 

things  to  consider  and  to  arrange.  Come  to  lun- 
cheon, to-morrow." 

"  I  '11  come  early  —  I  '11  come  at  one,"  Nick 
said  ;  and  for  a  moment  they  stood  smiling  at 
each  other. 

"  Do  you  think  I  want  to  wait,  any  more  than 
you  ?  "  Mrs.  Dallow  asked. 

"  I  don't  feel  so  much  out  of  it  now  ! "  he  ex- 
claimed, by  way  of  answer.  "You'll  stay,  of 
course,  now  —  you  '11  give  up  your  visits  ? " 

She  had  hold  of  the  lappet  of  his  coat ;  she 
had  kept  it  in  her  hand  even  while  she  detached 
herself  from  his  embrace.  There  was  a  white 
flower  in  his  buttonhole  which  she  looked  at  and 
played  with  a  moment  before  she  said  :  "  I  have  a 
better  idea —  you  need  n't  come  to  Griffin.  Stay 
in  your  studio  —  do  as  you  like  —  paint  dozens 
of  pictures." 

"Dozens  ?     You  barbarian  !  "  Nick  ejaculated. 

The  epithet  apparently  had  an  endearing  sug- 
gestion to  Mrs.  Dallow ;  at  any  rate  it  led  her  to 
allow  him  to  kiss  her  on  her  forehead  —  led  her 
to  say,  "  What  on  earth  do  I  want  but  that  you 
should  do  absolutely  as  you  please  and  be  as 
happy  as  you  can  ?  " 

Nick  kissed  her  again,  in  another  place,  at  this  ; 
but  he  inquired :  "  What  dreadful  proposition  is 
coming  now  ? " 

"  I  '11  go  off  and  do  up  my  visits  and  come 
back." 

"  And  leave  me  alone  ? " 


422  THE   TRAGIC  MUSE. 

"  Don't  be  affected  !  "  said  Mrs.  Dallow.  "  You 
know  you'll  work  much  better  without  me. 
You  '11  live  in  your  studio  —  I  shall  be  well  out 
of  the  way." 

"  That 's  not  what  one  wants  of  a  sitter.  How 
can  I  paint  you  ? " 

"  You  can  paint  me  all  the  rest  of  your  life.  I 
shall  be  a  perpetual  sitter." 

"  I  believe  I  could  paint  you  without  looking 
at  you,"  said  Nick,  smiling  down  at  her.  "  You 
do  excuse  me,  then,  from  those  dreary  places  ? " 

"  How  can  I  insist,  after  what  you  said  about 
the  pleasure  of  keeping  these  days  ?  "  Mrs.  Dal- 
low asked  sweetly. 

"  You  're  the  best  woman  on  earth  ;  though  it 
does  seem  odd  you  should  rush  away  as  soon  as 
our  little  business  is  settled." 

"We  shall  make  it  up.  I  know  what  I'm 
about.  And  now  go  !  "  Mrs.  Dallow  terminated, 
almost  pushing  her  visitor  out  of  the  room. 


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